


what we need is what we once had (all you need to know is i want more)

by maybankiara (juggyjones)



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, ex friends to lovers, it's very jiara-centric when the plot starts, jj's holding a lot of grudges and needs to move on, just trust me with this one okay, mentions of past abuse/trauma, seriously like the slowest of burns we're at jane austen levels rn, well technically kickboxing, with a little bit of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28638705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/maybankiara
Summary: JJ presses the side of his phone to his forehead, feeling the blood boiling in his ears. He’s glad there’s people around him to drown this out. He blends in, and he doesn’t feel so alone.He calls again, then, and lets it ring.Maybe she won’t answer.Maybe I won’t have to talk to her.Maybe—‘Hello?’He clears his throat, and says: ‘Hey, Kie.’— in which jj is an up-and-coming kickboxer set to fight one of his former best friends, the other has been dead for ten years, and the third one he catches himself falling in love all over again with, despite vowing to leave past in the past.
Relationships: JJ Maybank/Kiara Carrera
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	1. fortune only favours me

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the infamous kickboxer fic i've been talking about for the past few weeks! 
> 
> **notes (please read):**  
>  1\. the character of tommy conlon is taken from the film _warrior_ wherein tommy is portrayed by tom hardy. this film is what inspired this fic, so i thought i'd honour it in some way. despite this, tommy is still basically an original character, i just took inspiration and a _lot_ of creative liberty.  
> 2\. there will be some violence as this is a boxing fic, aka the fights will feature quite a bit. it won't be extensively graphic depictions aside from a mention of blood here and there, but nothing too much.  
> 3\. this takes place a decade after john b and sarah have died in the storm and yes, they _died_ in this fic. if the characters feel different, that's why.  
> 4\. i had to come up with a fair share of original characters to be able to do this as it's set post-season one, so they feature quite a bit.  
> 5\. all titles are from kaleo song. fic title is from _i want more_ and chapter title from _glass house_ because kaleo's discography is the absolute soundtrack to this fic and i definitely recommend listening to just about any song of theirs while reading this.  
> 6\. while i do boxing, i've taken some liberties with the professional side of things, so i'm sorry if there's any inaccuracies.  
> 7\. there will be mentions of jj's abuse. it's not glossed over and the trauma from it is explored, but nothing graphic (less than the show's depiction of it), but i might up the rating if it becomes too heavy. there might be a scene or two in which the abuse will be depicted, but i will give a warning and a brief summary of the scene for those who don't want to read it. let me know if there's anything else that i can do.  
> 8\. for clarity, i abbreviate the fic title to WWOH.  
> 

It’s a familiar sound. Powerful and instant, lasting no longer than a blink – it’s loud and piercing through the noise. Hard elastic against flesh and bone, and a snap that comes with blood that spurts across JJ’s face.

He breathes in, and tastes metal.

His eye stings; some of the blood got into it, but he keeps it open. Flanagan stumbles, balance wavering – but his hands are still up, and the referee’s hand doesn’t come between the two fighters. It’s not over yet.

JJ pulls his hands closer to himself. His eyes meet the other fighter’s.

Flanagan’s elbows are spread too wide. He’s putting too much weight on his back leg, bending the front knee. JJ tenses his body and targets.

It’s a clean uppercut; his right glove collides with Flanagan’s chin and the man’s head snaps back. The sound of bone breaking shatters through the cheers.

Flanagan’s eyes roll in the back of his head as he falls. He crashes on the mat, flat and out of consciousness; the referee takes a glance at the man. The hall is silent, or cheering; blood pumping in JJ’s ears deafens all the other noise.

He’s staring. They’re waiting.

JJ feels a hand around his wrist. A moment later, his arm is in the air and he knows the audience is cheering now, uncaring about the man lying on the ground. The blond pushes himself to cheer, too, euphoria edging on him slower than usual. He’d taken a few hits to the head – Mike “the Tempest” Flanagan is known for his right roundhouse and JJ hadn’t prepared well enough.

‘ _JJ “THE PHANTOM” MAYBANK!’_

The crowd roars, then screams his name back at him. His ears are ringing; he can’t tell if they’re screaming _Maybank_ or _Phantom_.

Things slow down a little, and he tries to appreciate the moment just a little bit; but all he can do is _breathe_ , and be thankful he’s still standing. The crowd cheering his name brings some life into his chest – just enough to snap him back to reality. Tommy Conlon is waiting for him at his corner so JJ goes there. His entire body is shaking and his trainer pours water over him, screaming words of encouragement and pride, for once.

JJ won, yet it doesn’t feel like it. His mind is full of things he shouldn’t be thinking about, but he still puts up a smile on his face. People like seeing the winners happy, not criticising themselves, or thinking they shouldn’t have done what they had.

A medic is approaching him but JJ pushes him away, muttering, ‘I’m fucking fine.’ He turns around and marches to the other corner; Flanagan is propped up on a chair, against the corner, with another medic flashing a light into his eyes. There’s blood gushing from his nose and the corner of his mouth, and a consistent stream running from above his left eyebrow. Half of his face is swollen, his nose has got a big, already-bruising bump on the bridge, and his lip’s been cut in more places than JJ can count.

‘Hey,’ he says. No apologies. His gloves are off so he leans on the rope of the ring, leaning forward a little. ‘Are you doing alright?’

Flanagan doesn’t respond to him, so JJ directs the question at the medic.

‘He’ll be alright.’

JJ gives a court nod. That’s all he needed to hear. He thanks Flanagan for the match, even if the man can’t—won’t—respond, and walks back to Tommy.

‘You won,’ his trainer says. ‘Why the fuck don’t you look like it?’

‘Kicked him too hard.’

JJ pulls himself under the rope, walking out of the ring. Tommy is quick to follow suit; he tries shouting at him but whatever he says, gets lost in the noise. People are struggling to get to JJ. There’s pens and papers and printed headshots pointed at him, but he ignores them. He’s not in the mood to act like a star.

(He’ll never be one. People like him—animals—don’t get to become _stars_.)

When the doors close and the locker room is quiet— _finally—_ Tommy throws the gloves at the wall. JJ flinches. He doesn’t know if Tommy notices or not, but he sits down, resting his bare back against the cold wall.

Tommy slams something on the floor. JJ flinches again, but doesn’t look.

‘Don’t give me bullshit about kicking him too hard. If it was too hard, the ref would’ve stopped the match.’

‘I didn’t need to finish him.’ JJ’s voice is calm; it always is under pressure.

Nowadays, anyway.

‘Makes you look better.’

‘Makes _him_ look like shit with a broken nose _and_ a broken jaw,’ JJ says. He opens his eyes and locks eyes with his trainer, feeling the rage seething within him (at himself, at Tommy, at the ref.) ‘I could’ve killed him.’

‘Should’ve, then.’ Tommy’s jaw is clenched and his shoulders are hunched, hands curled into fists at his side. He looks angry, but Tommy Conlon always looks angry. ‘At least then we definitely wouldn’t be dealing with the press calling you a pussy boy.’

JJ likes Tommy because he doesn’t hold back; because he takes shots just the way he fires them. Two street thugs who found themselves in a sport that’s a fine line from a paid gladiator arena. It also means that sometimes, they’re a fine line away from ripping each other’s throats out.

Tommy reaches into the pocket of his cargo shorts and throws JJ a plastic bottle. ‘You’re savage. You’re unpredictable. You bend the rules ‘til they’re sucking their own fuckin’ dicks. Don’t give me that bullshit about being too weak. You know you’re an animal, own up to it.’

‘ _You_ ’re a fucking animal.’ JJ stares at his trainer for a hot second, then downs everything that’s inside the bottle. It’s an energy drink—Tommy’s old favourite after a match—and it tastes like piss.

JJ wipes his mouth.

He gets eyed up and down; Tommy’s lip curls into a snare as he shakes his head, picking up the towel from the floor and throwing it over his shoulder. ‘Get fixed up. You look like shit. I got a call about another match, so we’ll need to talk about that at some point. Howard’s gonna take a look at you and you’re not leaving this room ‘til he’s made sure you’re good.’

‘Fine,’ mumbles JJ.

‘You hear me?’

‘I said _fine_.’

‘Good.’ Tommy glances at him with one hand on the doorknob. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes.’

The door shuts closed and the sound echoes a little, inducing a shiver down JJ’s spine. The silence that befalls makes him finally realise the match is truly over – he isn’t in the ring anymore. Not only has he made it out alive, he’s _won_ it. His lips flutter as the back of his head rests on the cold wall. Thick, warm liquid drips onto his stomach from his chin; it’s a mixture of sweat and blood, and maybe tears, even.

He lets out a long, drawn out breath.

JJ Maybank has been fighting his whole life, but he’s only been the Phantom for a very short portion of it. He likes to think the persona has been around since the faithful summer before his junior year, but officially, he only adopted it six years ago.

It’s odd to think he’s been boxing professionally only for the last three years. It’s even weirder to think the first time he picked up a glove was less than eight years ago.

Learning rules to fighting and how to channel his fierceness and raw animosity is what pulled his head from under the water. Until then, he’s fought more often than he hasn’t, scraps and real fights; he’s learnt how to take a punch and another and another and still keep going. He’s learnt how to duck and evade and use his physique to his advantage out of the ring, in the real world, where there are no rules. He’s learnt to be quick on his feet; to adapt within a moment.

To keep going like there’s nothing holding him back.

That’s what Tommy says: ‘Knowing how to take a punch is more important than knowing how to throw one.’

But he was also an animal, primal instinct for survival overriding any reason and logic, until he entered the ring – kickboxing gave him a sense of purpose he thought he’d lost.

JJ rubs his left eye with his knuckles until stars are etched on the back of his eyelid. It still stings from Flanagan’s blood.

Ever the self-sufficient, JJ assesses his wounds before his medic gets to. The cuts around his eyebrows and the grazes on his cheeks sting as he rinses his face. He takes a few cotton pads he always keeps in his bag and swabs his face with them, pressing lightly where blood doesn’t stop leaking. His left eye is bloodshot, but the right one is pretty banged up – eyelid swollen and a massive bruise starting to form around it. His body is relatively free from external injuries, but his forearms are both littered with different shades of yellow, green, and purple, all equally painful to touch.

His fingers touch the graze on his jaw where his skin has split and it throbs underneath his fingertips. The little pale lines and smudgy shapes that litter his face are all a consequence of his lifestyle – he can count about three new scars he’s going to get from this match alone. His skin breaks easily, and it never heals to hide it.

The boy who stares at him from the mirror is bigger than he was when he first came to West Coast; eyes more experienced, but heavy all the same. His hair is shaggy and cut to the same length it’s been since he was fifteen, still just as blonde as back then, but that’s the only similarity. The boy from the mirror wouldn’t recognise the boy who arrived with next to nothing to his name and made a name for himself.

JJ shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the mirror. ‘I’ve had worse.’

Howard McClancy arrives a few minutes later with another medic, instructing JJ to lie on an impromptu bed they set up on the steel table in the locker room. The doctor flashes a light into his eyes, checks his reflexes and whatnot, and it’s almost over before it starts. JJ likes to tune out during medical examinations and reflect on the match, instead. So long as no one is making a fuss about brain damage or the alike, JJ’s good. There’s a new ringing that sounds like it’s coming from behind his left ear, combining with screeching that never stops, and his head feels heavier than usual. If he was _just_ a boxer, it would be concerning – with the amount of hits he’d taken by the age of sixteen that were all unexpected, untamed, imprecise, and untreated (because no one wants to pay for beating the shit out of their own son), every hit is dangerous. Every time his head is ringing more than it always is, it’s a serious alarm – so McClancy not finding this troublesome is enough to let JJ’s worries go.

With Flanagan, he knows he messed up. It doesn’t matter what Tommy says, he thinks as Howard tells him that he ‘may need to be put on bed-rest’ while massaging his abdomen – he shouldn’t have finished him off with an uppercut. A regular jab would’ve done the job just as well, or a kick to the torso. Flanagan was barely standing on his feet – the ref should’ve called a TKO when JJ broke his nose. He should’ve counted. He should’ve done _something_.

It doesn’t matter now, anyway. Flanagan’s nose and jaw are broken or at least badly injured, and there’s nothing JJ can do about it.

—

The post-match press conference goes the way all press conferences do – making JJ regret choosing to do this professionally. The questions are idiotic and asked by people who should know better than to be reporters for kickboxing. There’s very little substance to the questions, most of the time, and JJ finds his head ringing harder than it was during the match itself.

He gets fed up with this and tells the moderator to let him pick someone. He calls on a guy looking significantly younger than the rest of the reporters, dressed up in a suit too flimsy for his lanky figure, and armed with a cheap camcorder.

The kid is the only interesting thing in the room. He stands up and looks like he’s about to throw up on the bald man in front of him, but still manages to smile a little.

‘Hey,’ says JJ, feeling his face distort as he tries to return the smile. _Jesus, he can’t be older than sixteen._ ‘You got a question for me?’

The kid fumbles with the camcorder until it’s pointed at JJ’s face, slicking some of his dark hair back. JJ notices he doesn’t even have a microphone. Definitely doesn’t look old enough to be a proper reporter – he wonders how the hell he managed to get here.

‘What’s the best part about a match?’

‘Winning it,’ JJ remarks in an instant. 

He can see Tommy out of the corner of his eye, nodding with his arms crossed at his chest. The kid nods and sits back down, looking a bit worse for the wear.

Tommy’s satisfied – the kid seems satisfied – but JJ thinks back to the euphoria of winning a match, and he can’t really recall anything of the sorts. It’s the euphoria of staying alive, mostly, and living to see another day, hoping that whatever injuries he’s gained won’t have permanent consequences.

JJ clears his throat, feeling his heart throbbing in the back of his head.

‘Actually, that’s not it,’ he corrects himself. ‘Entering the ring is. When the music’s playing and everybody’s cheering your name, and you’re all amped up and ready to fight like it’s life or death, because it is. Every fight – it’s always life or death. That’s the best part.’

The kid lowers the camcorder a little, looking at JJ with the same look he had the first time he watched a kickboxing match. It was a different time – different, simpler things amazed him.

‘Thanks,’ says the kid.

All JJ offers in return is a nod, because the moderator’s already got another person asking the next question. JJ lets himself lounge in the shitty wooden chair they’ve given him, reality escaping from over him as he answers the other questions on autopilot.

_It was a good match. I believe I performed better than I have so far, but there will certainly be things to think about and improve on. If Flanagan asks for a rematch, I doubt I would refuse. I wish him the best recovery. Yes, I always rewatch my matches, it’s one of the best ways to learn. Flanagan fought well. It was a fair fight. Lots of factors go into a win but at the end of the day, it says something, it matters._

‘What a fucking shitshow,’ mutters Tommy, the moment JJ gets himself off the stage. ‘We shouldn’t let them ask shitty questions anymore.’

JJ takes the black hoodie Tommy’s holding out for him and puts it on with a sigh. ‘It’s not like we can do something about it.’

‘It’s like I always say, they should—’

‘—let fans ask questions,’ JJ finishes for his trainer. ‘Try saying it more often, maybe someone will hear you.’

‘I don’t appreciate your tone, boy.’

‘I don’t appreciate being tortured for half an hour, either.’

Tommy puts an arm around his neck and grips his shoulder, pulling him closer as they walk. ‘I know, but you can’t pull stunts like the one with that kid. Or giving fuckin’ bullshit answers.’

JJ wriggles himself out of the grip. His body is still sore, heart still pumping to make up for all the blood lost, and he’s not keen on being toyed with like a rag doll.

He glares as his trainer as they walk through a grey corridor, seeing his reflection threaten to bite back at him in the reflective steel. ‘If I have to put myself through this, at least let me be honest.’

Tommy grits his teeth. His cheekbones sharpen and jaw tenses, but he doesn’t make an attempt to put his hand on JJ again. ‘Remember your reputation.’

‘Got it.’

The two walk in silence for a few long seconds. JJ is painfully aware of the animosity reeking off of him, and he’s got half a mind to control it. When they leave the building, there’s bound to be more reporters invading on their way to the car, and these ones are worse – they’re vultures, ready to do whatever it takes to put something in their shitty tabloids.

JJ adjusts the strap on his shoulder; pacing through the lobby makes the bag swing hard enough to kick him in the thigh, and he’s starting to feel the muscle exhaustion.

‘Howard said he gave you a week of no physical activity and three of no training,’ says Tommy. ‘I got it down to two if you promise to be extra careful with your head.’

‘I’m always extra careful with my head.’

‘And that’s exactly why your arms look like a kid spilled paint over them. That’s good – I don’t want to have to think about you getting seriously injured.’

“Seriously injured” only means one thing to Tommy – incapacitated, unable to fight. JJ feels a bitter taste on his tongue as he says, ‘You’d never be able to find someone like me.’

‘Eh, I reckon I’d be able to find someone with a more proper technique.’

JJ gives him a side glance as they walk through the main gate, but the jab is fair – JJ was a brawler, not a boxer, when he first started. He was all about getting the opponent down, all that more suited for MMA than kickboxing.

JJ wanted to go into MMA. Tommy told him off – it’s not for boys like him. If you take control from someone who’s never wanted any, you end up with a rabid dog ready to kill whatever’s in front of him.

‘Kickboxing is what you should be doing,’ Tommy had told him then. ‘You get to do more than in boxing, but you’ve got rules to hold you back.’

There’s no one who could say what would’ve been of JJ if Tommy Conlon hadn’t found him. If there were, he wouldn’t want to know.

Tommy pats him on the shoulder. The corridor takes a turn and they find themselves in front of big doors, wide open with the March breeze bringing in fresh air. ‘Put a smile on that face. You’ve got a reputation to uphold.’

With that, they walk through the door, and JJ is swallowed by the press. The questions are a repeat of the conference, yet this time around, there is scarcely pressure on him to answer them. There are a rare few he entertains, ones he finds interesting, but a large number of reporters go ignored as JJ rushes along the barrier separating them. Microphones and cameras are shoved in his face, but Tommy’s firm presence at his side anchors him.

The Southern kid from an island who fought for his life inside his own home wants to bite back. He wants to tell them to shut the fuck up—that he’d like to see _them_ in a ring—but doesn’t.

(All the reputation shit has made him go meek, he sometimes thinks. Then again, he can’t go assaulting civilians if he wants to keep his licence _and_ freedom.)

So he keeps mum and he’s about to enter the bus when a name pops up in the noise – a name JJ didn’t think would ever again be tied to him. 

JJ stops in his tracks. Freezes. Feels like someone shot right through his heart and glued his feet to the ground.

In his ear, Tommy tells him to keep going, ignoring the reporter. JJ is only catching his breath, wetting his lips with his tongue as his mouth has run dry; he wants to— he wants to— But Tommy’s got a grip around his wrist and tugging, because the reporters are flocking and time keeps moving regardless of the chaos in JJ’s head.

Tommy pulls him and JJ stumbles; the movement is enough to snap him out of it, and the pain of the tug is what brings him back. His feet start moving as he shakes the name out of his head, knowing he must’ve heard wrong. His wrist is sore as he massages it, the imprints of Tommy’s fingers outlined in red, but he swallows the words on the tip of his tongue.

The door of the school bus opens, and the inside of it erupts into cheers. JJ feels arms around his neck before he sees who they belong to. He’s pulled inside, where a bottle of champagne is popped and the person hugging him—Rocco—lets go, making room for Jorge to come into his place.

‘Well done, brother,’ says Jorge next to JJ’s ear, holding him close.

JJ pats the man’s back. ‘Thanks, dude.’

Jorge steps to the side and there’s a repeat of this with Connor. When that’s done, the blond looks around the bus. There’s Jorge, Rocco, and Connor, his buddies from the gym and his only supporters who had the time to come tonight; McClancy and Nelson, the medics who banned JJ from training for two weeks; Matty, the driver; and Tommy, who closes the bus door, nodding at the Matty with a hand between JJ’s shoulder blades.

‘C’mon.’ Tommy gives him one of the rare half-smiles, nodding towards the seats and the table where Rocco is pouring into champagne glasses. ‘You deserve to celebrate. It was one of your best matches yet.’

‘You serious?’

Tommy’s eyebrow wiggles. ‘I’m not repeating myself.’

An earnest smile is drawn from JJ and he wraps his trainer into a hug, regardless of whether he wants it or not. ‘Thanks, Tommy.’

All he gets in response is a grunt.

Connor hands around the glasses as the boys take a seat around the table, half on each side of the bus. Even the medics decided to join the celebration, attaching themselves to the group rather awkwardly. Jorge raises the glass as the engine roars and the bus starts to move; he looks at JJ with gleam in his eyes.

‘To JJ,’ he says. ‘For getting his face bashed in for our entertainment and doing a good job of it.’

There’s a mixture of laughter and cheers, and JJ feels his chest swell with the euphoria of winning for the first time – when he sees how happy it makes the people he cares about. Rocco puts on some rock music and turns on the LED lights that JJ had put up around the bus, turning an old school bus into a party.

It’s a five-hour journey from Las Vegas to San Diego, and the boys are planning to make the most of it. They run out of champagne within minutes and replace it with beer, instead. JJ takes a few, but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind no amount of alcohol can get rid of – singing to rock classics, trying to throw darts in a moving bus, losing at cards over and over is what keeps the thoughts at bay.

It’s a five-hour journey, and the euphoria and the entertainment don’t last forever.

JJ nudges Tommy. The man’s had quite a few drinks and he’s a little less uptight than he usually would be, so conversations will be less stilted form now on – with what’s going on inside JJ’s head, he finds it the perfect opportunity to find out what other match Tommy was talking about in the locker room. 

‘What?’ asks the man, arms crossed on his chest begrudgingly. ‘Tired of losing?’

‘I wanna talk to you. About the next match.’

Tommy clicks his tongue and plays his card, telling Connor to “pack it” before turning back to JJ. ‘You need to rest, have a clear head. _Then_ we’ll talk about the next match.’

JJ’s jaw clenches. He places a hand on his trainer’s arm, staring at him until Tommy’s lazy head turns to face him, annoyance written in every line.

The blond isn’t asking.

‘Sorry, boys. I’m sitting the rest of this one out.’

There’s a few groans but they quieten when JJ promises to let Tommy come back soon, and that he’ll play the next round, too. The two of them go toward the back of the bus, where a handful of torn-off bus-seats are keeping place for whatever JJ decides is to come there, and sit down.

It’s a bit unsteady here – JJ feels every bump, and decides that the suspensors are the next thing he’s getting fixed.

‘So.’ Tommy clasps his hands on his lap, staring JJ dead in the eye. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

_Anything, just not—_

‘Who’s my next match with?’

The silence that ensues is brimmed with tension. Tommy’s lips are pressed together, green eyes glancing between the boy’s, and JJ can almost see thoughts racing through his head; it’s only making his own thoughts all the more heavier to bear. The memory of a name he longed to forget being brought up without forewarning repeats in his head until it almost doesn’t feel real; he doesn’t notice he’s gripping the edge of the seat until his fingers go numb.

JJ takes a deep breath and rests the back of his head against the window. His eyes don’t run from Tommy’s – the wait is only increasing the anguish. Tommy Conlon doesn’t tend to beat around the bush.

‘I got a call before the match,’ he says, ‘from Nick.’

‘I thought managers call the fighters, not trainers.’

‘Usually.’

The way he says it—extending the syllables, rounding the world in his own Southern way—makes JJ think whatever this match is, it’s far from his usual.

Music doesn’t reach the back of the bus loudly enough to drown out rain splattering on the windows around them, or the thumping of JJ’s heart, or the noise inside his head. He knows he’s in for a treat and he won’t like it.

A sigh falls from his lips. ‘He called you because you’re more likely to convince me to do it than he is.’

‘Look, it’s not a bad match,’ Tommy says. JJ notes he doesn’t dispute his claim. ‘It’s a _great_ match.’

JJ’s lip curls. ‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘He’s a boxer.’

For a moment, the meaning doesn’t register in JJ’s brain. When it does, he mutters a curse and shakes his head, letting his body lean back into the seat. ‘Shit, Tommy.’

‘He wants to try kickboxing, and he—’

‘So he’s never done it before? Professionally?’

Tommy’s lip curls, now, in contempt – the boys share an opinion about boxing and boxers, and it’s not one that should be shared with the public. ‘Not professionally, no. But he’s getting established in boxing ranks, a fast climber. Like you.’

‘That means nothing. I’m not gonna fight a _boxer_ , Tommy.’

‘It could be good for your rep.’

‘Will you shut up about my _rep_?’ JJ runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the tips that threaten to fall into his eyes. His leg is jumping up and down. ‘You didn’t care about yours when you were boxing, why do I have to care about mine?’

 _You don’t know what you’re talking about_ , says the glimmer in Tommy’s eyes, and the vein popping at his neck. Maybe in his prime he was as hot-headed as the blond, but not anymore – JJ’s bait doesn’t work.

Instead, Tommy rests an elbow on his knees and leans forward. His voice is a learned-quiet when he speaks. ‘Because now it’s not good enough to be great in the ring. You’ve got to be great outside the ring. C’mon, Maybank, you know it.’

 _Maybank_. When it rolls off Tommy’s tongue with scold and anger to the tone, it feels like a punch to the gut.

He sees the familiar San Diego lights in the distance – it’s not long before they’re at the gym, where the reception is bound to be greater than in the bus. There’ll be a dark blue banner with his name propped up on the lamppost next to the gym, with _THE PHANTOM_ and the time and date of his fight printed beneath. It’s tacky, but they refuse to take it down each time.

He knows what he stands for.

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘I don’t think Nick is asking.’ For once, Tommy sounds sympathetic, and JJ appreciates it.

All JJ wants to do is argue, but doing so would be pointless. Not only is he already exhausted and he’s still set to celebrate with friends who couldn’t make it to the arena, but he knows that there’s nothing arguing with Tommy can accomplish. The man’s on his side, but neither of them have a say in decisions like these.

He still says this: ‘I am saying no. You can tell Nick if he wants me to consider it, he has to convince _me_. I’m not going to let myself be a fucking jumping board for some bored boxer.’

Tommy nods. ‘Do you still want me to tell you who it is?’

JJ Maybank doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he does like to think that the universe’s favourite pasttime is fucking him over, so he kind of guesses who this could be about. There’s only one person who fits the criteria and there must’ve been a reason why his name popped up today.

So he shakes his head. ‘No.’

They go back to playing cards for the next half an hour, which is how long it takes until the bus is parked on the parking lot behind the gym. The medics leave but the boys talk Matty into joining them, and the group is met by another three times its size inside the gym. There’s food and drinks and people keep congratulating JJ, but his head is elsewhere.

He doesn’t want to know the name because he doesn’t want the confirmation that the universe hates him – but the agony of not knowing is just as merciless.

It’s quite some time later that JJ approaches Tommy, a single question in mind. ‘Who is it?’

Tommy doesn’t respond immediately. Green eyes move between JJ’s and the look on his face is calculating; he’s making him wait because he refused to want to know earlier, or because he can already guess the reaction.

It creates unnecessary suspense that’s yet another thing out of order today – but no suspense could’ve prepared JJ for the name falling from his trainer’s lips.

‘Pope Heyward.’

—

JJ holds out three days before his body’s aching to get moving again. He goes on long walks around the neighbourhood, jogging every now and then; when he gets bored, he does calisthenics; when that doesn’t do, he makes himself do pull-ups and push-ups until his arms and abs are in agony.

There are memories threatening to spill over the barrier he put them behind. He can’t afford that.

When the week is up, JJ rolls into the gym with freshly-washed blonde hair sticking out from under his red baseball cap, a black hoodie on, and the cargo shorts that are a JJ Maybank staple. It’s a Saturday morning so there’s a fair few faces he doesn’t see as often, and most of them greet him as he passes them. Being the star of a middle-reputation California gym is a little more pressure than JJ would’ve assumed. It usurps his wish to lie low, but not to the point where it’s detrimental.

(With his career having taken off in the last year and a half, laying low doesn’t constitute the same things it did ten years ago.)

‘Heard there’s a phantom walking around before he’s supposed to,’ comes from behind him.

‘Heard there’s a mutt sticking his nose where he’s not supposed to.’ JJ turns around and grins at his friend, who pulls him into a warm hug.

Elliott sighs as they pull back, resting his hands on his hips. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be there after the fight.’

‘Don’t worry about it, happens. Wanna tell me what you were doing while I was getting my face bashed in?’

There’s a nod, and both boys walk into the locker room. It reeks of sweat and there’s steam coming from the shower pods, but for JJ, he’s entering familiar territory for the first time in a week. He inhales with the entirety of his lungs until he feels like he’s starting to get sick.

Elliott sits on the bench as JJ changes, giving him a rundown of what went down at work while JJ strips into his underwear and puts his boxing shorts and a basketball top on. There’s a lot of entertaining stories coming from someone who’s a security guard at a high-security psych ward – probably none that should be told, but they both know JJ isn’t going to spread it around.

The story of last Friday comes to an end just as JJ ties the laces on his trainers.

‘What did you think of the match?’

Elliot’s dark eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘Shouldn’t have knocked him out in the fourth round.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wanted to be entertained for at least five.’

JJ smacks his friend on the back of his head, groaning as he gets off the bench, with Elliott quick to follow. ‘Next time I’ll make sure I do it before the third ends.’

‘ _Boring_.’

‘Get in the ring with me, I’ll show you _boring_.’

‘Is that a threat, _phantom_?’ Elliott’s face is relaxed into a smug grin; even through the black Guns ‘N Roses shirt, JJ can see him puff his chest as he takes a step toward him, nearly closing the distance between them.

Even with the three inches, about two dozen pounds, and two years his friend’s got on him, JJ’s grin mimics Elliott’s. ‘How about a challenge?’

‘I thought you weren’t supposed to be boxing.’

‘Don’t be a pussy,’ taunts JJ, taking a step back and nodding towards an empty ring. ‘We both know I’m up to the task. Are _you_?’

As soon as Elliott sighs, JJ knows he got him.

They walk back into the main hall; sounds of gloves hitting leather on the pads and boxing bags fill the space and JJ relishes in it. Every time he goes to a match, there’s the looming possibility of not hearing it again.

Before they get started, Elliot has them both doing warm-ups. Boxing in every shape and form has been a part of his life since he was a kid – a family tradition. He knows how to box and how to train, so JJ lets him set the pace and the exercises they do before sparring. In turn, Elliott tells him about his fiancee and little siblings, and JJ tells him about the party he attended the other night.

Sometimes JJ wonders how he and Elliott became friends. The only thing they’ve got in common is boxing, and even that is vastly different – Elliott boxes because he loves it and because it keeps him in shape for his job, and JJ is the one who sees boxing as an outlet for more than he could express, and competitions are his motivation to keep going. Regardless of their differences, JJ would entrust the man his own life without hesitation.

JJ’s never had an older brother. He had boys who came close, but they didn’t have the right sort of authority over him. Elliott Thawne is the first and only person JJ considers an older brother.

‘Ready?’

The blond nods, bumping a fist wrapped in bandages with Elliott’s as the other boy sets a timer on his smart watch. Both boys step back, shifting weight from one foot to another, circling around each other like two predators – JJ cranes his neck until it pops.

Elliott swings a hook. JJ’s arm shoots up, blocking, and he swings his foot in Elliott’s abdomen. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to be annoying. He steps back; JJ thinks about giving him a moment to recover, then hits him with a kick to the shin, instead.

‘You little shit,’ says Elliott, with only half as much affection as usual.

‘What’s up, old man?’ JJ wiggles his eyebrows, grinning even though his breathing is uneven. ‘Too slow?’

Elliott is stiff for half a second—JJ’s brain recalibrates—before he lunges like a bull, hitting JJ not unlike Flanagan a week ago. It’s all on his forearms that are protecting his head. He doesn’t have time to react, do _anything_ , not when Elliott’s got so much advantage over him.

But there’s a split moment of hesitation and JJ lands an uppercut, forcing Elliott to take a step back. He seizes the opportunity and kicks him in the stomach, pushing him even farther back, until his hands are lowered and his foot taps Elliott’s chin.

‘Time!’ shouts Elliott. He waits until JJ’s hands are hanging at his sides to rub his chin, stretching his arms. ‘Fuck, JJ.’

‘C’mon, it’ll only leave a bruise, at most.’

‘You can bruise me up all you want _after_ I get married.’ Elliot picks up two water bottles from his corner, throwing one over to JJ. ‘Daphne wouldn’t have me looking all battered, even if it’s coming from you.’

‘Eh, I’d say she wouldn’t mind me giving you a beating or two.’

JJ leans against the ropes, feeling his lungs burn as oxygen runs through them. His muscles are a little stiff so throws his arms from side to side, stretching his back as much as he can. They’d agreed upon a minute’s break and it’s about to run out, if Elliott cracking his knuckles means anything.

‘Two months,’ says the man, showing the number with his fingers. ‘That’s how long you need to keep my face intact.’

He nods at JJ and the blond grins, feeling his footing as he approaches the middle of the ring. ‘Don’t worry about it. If your face is the only thing off limits, that much I can do.’

Elliott is the first one to swing again and he misses, but so does JJ. The hits are less spaced out as the boys pick up their pace, almost in a two-three rhythm. JJ’s legs are swift against the mat, keeping him stable no matter whether he’s giving or taking punches.

A blow comes straight into his head; JJ feels it knock back, but it’s not serious. They’re using quarter of a force they would if this was a real match – still, he sneezes.

It makes Elliott laugh. ‘Sorry, do I need to keep your face pretty so you don’t need to come alone to the wedding?’

JJ lunges for the torso and hits it with a hook, shielding himself from Elliott’s blow that follows. He evades and kicks him away, with enough space between them to catch a breather. ‘Only if you’re scared my being alone would be too entertaining for your guests.’

Elliott grins, raising his fists. ‘You’re aiming to get laid at weddings ‘cos you can’t get a girl to stick around?’

The chuckle JJ lets out is more of a _HA!_ and he lets Elliott boss him around a little, tire him out, moving around the ring like it’s a dance floor. ‘It’s more like no girl can get _me_ to stick around.’

‘As if any of them would want to.’

JJ evades another blow and Elliott calls the end of the round. They each go to their own corners, but JJ feels his lungs burning even harder than earlier; his footing doesn’t seem to be as firm as he’d like and he’s teetering in place, and there’s a buzzing or a ringing noise in his head. He bumps himself on the ear a little, trying to get it out. It doesn’t, so he leans on the ropes again, taking a modest sip of water.

‘Are you sure you’re good for the next round?’ Elliott is eyeing him from his end of the corner with worry written all over his face. ‘We don’t have to—’

‘Yeah.’ JJ sniffs and rubs his nose with his forearm, nodding fervently. ‘Yeah, I’m good to go. Start the time.’

‘Seriously, we can—’

‘Just start the time, Elliott. I’m not dying.’

Outside the ring, a familiar cough reaches JJ’s ears, and he feels his heart sink. ‘You will be, if I get my hands on you.’

JJ’s hands drop again and he leans over the ropes, staring at his trainer like a boy pleading with his father for just one more candy before bed. ‘C’mon, Tommy. You know I’m good.’

JJ looks to Elliott for help, but his friend shakes his head, fixing the bandages; the blond swallows the spit that’s pooling in his mouth, and gets out of the ring.

In front of him is Tommy Conlon, wearing the usual attire of a grey zip-up with the hood thrown over his head, a washed-out tee probably from the 90s, dark joggers that are probably just as old, and trainers that seem to be the only item from this century. All of this, and a disapproving frown with a wrinkle on his forehead that JJ knows all too well.

Instead of acknowledging him, Tommy glances over at the ring. ‘Thawne, c’mere for a second, will you?’

JJ watches with his arms crossed over his chest, weight shifting from one leg to another. Elliot drops himself from the ring and joins the two with an uncertain tilt to his brow, nodding at Tommy in lieu of a greeting.

‘How long are you going to be here today?’ asks the trainer.

‘Dunno. About another hour, two tops.’

‘Good. Keep an eye on Maybank. Don’t let him spar again, you know the doctor gave him two weeks.’

JJ’s fingers curl into his biceps. ‘Tommy, you can’t—’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Tommy jabs a finger to his chest with enough power for JJ to stumble backwards. ‘I’ll deal with you in a bit. Thawne, it’s for his own good.’

‘I’m not a fucking baby, Conlon.’

‘Am I talking to you?’

 _Might as well be_ , thinks JJ, but he bites his tongue. This isn’t a fight he is going to win – he’s learnt enough from his father to know that some fights just aren’t worth fighting.

The glance Elliott throws at his friend is apologetic, but firm. The two years that separate them seem to be all that holds weight in the silent disagreement between the boys, and age wins. ‘Sure thing, Tommy.’

‘ _Fuck_ , Elliott.’

‘Thanks, Thawne.’

Elliott’s lips curl into a smile that JJ assumes is meant to be supportive, but makes his blood boil regardless – not at him, though. He goes back to whatever he’d been doing before JJ walked in so the blond turns to Tommy with fire in his mouth, but the icy glare of the trainer is enough to seal him shut.

He doesn’t need to jab a finger at JJ’s chest again to make him feel like he’s being scorned. ‘You can’t be an idiot. I’m the last person who wants to keep you from training, but you know that if you take a bad hit before you’ve recovered, you’re risking _everything_. Is that what you want? Because you can’t sit on your ass for another week?’

‘I’m bored, alright?’

‘Go out, then.’ Tommy fails his hands around; JJ can’t figure out if he’s actually angry or just doing it to scare him. ‘Fuck someone. Get that out of your system. Go watch a football match, whatever, I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t give a shit, as long as you’re not getting hit. And that means _anywhere_ , not just your head.’

JJ’s jaw clenches and he feels his teeth press against one another, pressure bursting in his ears – but he doesn’t fire. He nods, instead, feeling the anger fluctuating at near the highest point.

Even at twenty-six, JJ’s knack for recklessness hasn’t withered away.

He feels Elliott’s eyes on him—probably bound to stay there for the next week or so—and cranes his neck until he hears a satisfying crack again, loud enough to be heard even in the busy gym.

Tommy makes a grimace at the sound and JJ tries to pretend he doesn’t notice, and especially that he didn’t do it _because_ Tommy hates it.

‘Go on,’ says the trainer. ‘Nick wants to talk to you in his office.’

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

There’s no point in proving he doesn’t. Tommy nods in the direction of the office, where Nick Clark sits at his desk, all very noticeable from the massive window on the first floor – the part where the simple gym evolves into a developing business empire.

As he walks through the door leading into the corridor with the stairs, JJ doesn’t know what to expect. He has a rough idea what this could be about – there’s more than a fair share of things about JJ that Nick doesn’t fully endorse, with his personality taking the lead.

Nick Clark likes his business to be without trouble. JJ Maybank, his most-successful and highest-profiting business decision, is almost synonymous with trouble on a _good_ day. Nothing strong enough to get him kicked out of the association or cause serious damage, but enough to keep his name associated with the tone of questionable approval. The reputation is good _and_ bad for the gym. More people like JJ means more raw fighters, ready to throw themselves at the nearest opportunity, but less of men from respectable backgrounds.

The office is one of the three rooms on the first floor and it’s the only one that’s looking into the gym. There’s a small window on the wall next to the door, above the waiting seats, and JJ looks through it – Elliott’s on a punching bag and Tommy’s headed to work with one of the new guys he thinks could be the next JJ. Some of his other friends are here—Javier and Rocco—but most of them are at home right now.

Most of them have a nine to five job and sleep in on Saturdays and come here to get their frustrations out of their systems. Not like JJ.

The wooden door sounds hollow against his knuckles. Nick’s voice invites him in and he walks through, letting the door click itself closed behind him.

‘Take a seat, Maybank.’ The manager doesn’t raise his eyes from his phone as he waves a hand JJ’s general direction. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’

The chair JJ lets himself sink into is brown leather – probably real, knowing Nick. His leg jumps up and down but he resists the urge to nip at his fingernails, settling for picking at the leather scabs instead.

A minute passes, and Nick still doesn’t give him any attention. His fingers are slow to glide across the phone screen and sometimes he grimaces at whatever it is he’s doing. The glasses for the protection against the blue screen are framed by salt and pepper-coloured hair, barely longer than a buzzcut; Nick’s age has worn off on him worse than it should. In late forties, the wrinkles under his eyes could make him pass for a man in his late fifties, if not older. Even his stature, big and muscular, has softened over the few years he’s spent sitting in the fancy chair.

Nick sets his phone on the table with a slight cough. JJ thinks how rude it is that he doesn’t cover his mouth, because the stench of cigarettes reaches JJ all the way across the desk.

(Morbid as it is, the guys at the gym have made a bet on how long it’ll be until Clark is diagnosed with a form of cancer. Most don’t give him more than five years.)

‘Right, Maybank.’ Nick’s eyes are a piercing grey, devoid of any human emotion. ‘I heard your last match was one of your best.’

‘Probably _the_ best. At least Tommy says so.’

‘I’d trust Tommy on that. It looked decent. You’ve come a long way from the scrawny brawler we decided to make something out of seven years ago.’

‘Six,’ corrects JJ. ‘I’ve been fighting for you for six years.’

‘Right.’

Nick clears his throat again. He takes the glasses off his nose, folding them on the table. He stares at JJ for a long moment, hands clasped on the desk, and JJ feels as if he’s being studied.

The blond shifts in his seat. His leg comes to a halt, and he stops picking at the leather.

‘Why are you refusing to fight Heyward?’

‘He’s not a kickboxer.’

‘He wants to become one. You could become a boxer, too.’

JJ feels his neck tense. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘You _could_ ,’ repeats Nick, in a way that “could” means less of a _could_ and more of a _should_. ‘Going against an up-and-coming light heavyweight boxer is how you kickstart a great career. It’ll also turn eyes in your direction for kickboxing, too. It’s the right move, whether you like it or not.’

He doesn’t like where this conversation is going. The venom has a bitter taste on his mouth even before he spits it with the words: ‘Shouldn’t _I_ have some decision over what I do in _my_ career?’

Nick Clark leans forward in his chair. The light overhead casts shadows down his brow, over his eyes, and for a moment—just for a moment—he resembles a skeleton.

‘Maybank, you are under my management. Do you understand what this means?’

 _No_ , JJ wants to retort, _and fuck you_ – but he bites his tongue yet again. His neck is tense and so is his jaw, and his leg feels like it’s about to burst from the effort he’s putting in not moving it.

He doesn’t reply because he considers the question he directed at Nick a valid question. He is JJ Maybank and he ought to have control over what he does with his life. No one, not even Nick Clark, should be able to take that from him.

 _Should_.

‘Do you like training here? Do you like Tommy as your trainer?’

JJ is quiet.

Nick unclasps his fingers and taps them lightly against the desk. The rhythm is speeding up, just a little, or so JJ feels. ‘If you want to stay at this gym, you do as I say. If you want to keep Tommy, you do as I say. If you want to have a career in this goddamned sport, _you do as I say._ ’

His ears are ringing and _you do as I say_ becomes _do what I fuckin’ tell you_ and _that’s all you’re good for_ and the ringing comes from the back of his head and—

‘You got it?’

JJ blinks, and Nick’s staring at him with lips pressed into a tight line and an eyebrow raised with a threatening question.

He hasn’t always nearly despised Nick Clark. Back when he joined the gym, seven years ago, Nick was the one who trained him first. He was the one who told him he’s got a strong uppercut and an undefeatable left hook, identified his weak and strong suits, made him believe that he could be _something_. Then he was the one who got his acquaintance Tommy to invest in the gym with him, to train JJ and all the other hopefuls. For about a year, both Nick and Tommy helped him get better. When it was decided that Nick would take over the position manager of the gym and therefore the club itself, he took the office job because the pay held more value than the sport. It’s been nearly six years of that – he’s gotten crankier, more up his own ass, changing from someone JJ admired to someone he can hardly stand.

He used to be a fighter. Now, he’s an old, tired bastard who forgot what it feels like to get your blood boiling in a fight. That’s something you can never take back.

JJ tries to reason with his own thoughts to keep himself from losing his cool. _It’s not worth it_ , he tells himself, but the authoritative look in his manager’s eyes reminds him of someone who—

‘I said, _you got it_?’

His mouth is dry. ‘I got it.’

‘Good.’ Nick picks up a different pair of glasses and opens a small notebook, jotting something down. ‘You’ll be fighting Heyward in a few months’ time. After that, I’ll have you try out for boxing instead of kickboxing. If that doesn’t work out, you’ll do MMA—’

‘I’m doing _kick_ boxing for a reason, Nick,’ says JJ, exasperated. ‘I’m not fit for—’

‘You’ll do as I say. Aisha will contact you once we start getting into the PR side of things.’

JJ pushes himself off the back of the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I know what I’m good at. If you sign me up for anything other than kickboxing, I won’t do well.’

Nick doesn’t look at him as he jots down more. Each stroke is more frustrating for JJ, whose leg has started to bounce again.

‘Don’t worry, kid. I know what you’re good at. And remember – do as I say.’

Luke Maybank’s words echo in JJ’s head; there are battles that cannot be won. JJ used to think this was one of them and maybe it is, but he’s a fighter not just in the ring. He may not get it his way, but he’s got to get _something_.

(There are lines JJ Maybank shouldn’t cross but could, and there are some he wouldn’t ever dare to cross. There are two lines he’s being forced to choose between. The only one he is willing to cross is clear.)

It’s disrespectful, but JJ is a little past giving a fuck, so he raises from his seat. He likes having the higher ground. He likes feeling like he’s got a say in things. ‘I’ll think about boxing and MMA. _Think_. But get the match with Heyward out of your head. I’m not fucking doing that and that’s _final_.’

‘You can’t tell me—’

‘What?’ JJ clenches his fists at his sides. His father’s voice is a little quieter. He glares at Nick, nothing to hide – he shows his contempt and his rage and his absolute refusal for the man to read, and Nick falters. ‘I will not fight Heyward. He can find himself someone else to fight.’

‘He wants _you_.’

With one hand on the doorknob, JJ glances back. ‘Do I look like I want _him_?’

Before Nick gets a chance to reply, the fighter is out of the door, marching down the corridor. His hands are aching for something to hit and he gets the opportunity a minute later, when the punching bag is taking all the hits he wishes Nick Clark could.

JJ is willing to make compromises, but that’s one he will not. Past stays in the fucking past.

—

In comparison to the prickling cold he just walked in from, JJ’s apartment feels warm, for once. It’s the same one-bedroom place he’s had for about five years now – paying rent for a shitty home is less tedious than having to look all over for one that’ll be a slight improvement. With the amount he’s earned from kickboxing he could probably do better than a “slight improvement”, but… what would be the point? JJ’s grown fond of the crappiness of this place.

He likes walking through the hallway, throwing his jacket on the coat rack and taking his shoes off as soon as he enters. He likes that the door to his bedroom doesn’t close because it means he never forgets to air the place; he likes that the electricity goes off sometimes and he’s got to light up the place with candles; he likes that it always smells like cooking because the ventilation is pretty much nonexistent. He likes the familiarity of the mould in the shower corner that keeps coming back no matter how hard he scrubs it off; the kitchen drawers that seem to always unscrew themselves; the electricity and plugs that have an almost fifty/fifty chances of working, on a bad day. It feels messy, most of the time, and he’s got a TV propped up on a coffee table that seems to be from the middle ages and is threatening to break at any moment, but it’s nice.

It’s JJ’s, as much as it can be, and it’s a hell of a lot better than the places he lived in for the first twenty-something years of his life.

With the jacket and the shoes thrown on the corridor floor, JJ makes his way to the kitchen. He got some Chinese on the way home so he puts that on the counter, scouring through the drawers for some chopsticks. A screw falls down and he picks it up with a sigh. There’s not a single pen around—must’ve rolled under the fridge—so he reaches into the furthest drawer and takes out a pen from underneath a yellowing envelope with his name and address written on it in scrawny handwriting. He writes down _FIX THE MIDDLE DRAWER_ on a little note stuck on the fridge, under three other notes with chores he said he’d do tomorrow.

He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a beer, but doesn’t take it out – he thinks of the two beers he’d just had when he was out with the guys, and puts it back in, instead.

‘It’s supposed to be my cheat day,’ he murmurs to himself.

Sometimes JJ wishes he had a cat, or a dog, or something, just so he doesn’t talk to himself all the time. Maybe he’ll get a cat, he thinks as he starts to devour the Chinese, or maybe a dog would be a nicer friend to have.

(He doesn’t think about the fact that he hasn’t gotten a pet yet because animals remind him of someone he used to like before he came to San Diego.)

It’s only eight o’clock and there isn’t much on the TV, so JJ puts on some random Netflix documentary. He scrolls through sports news, sees there’s a football match playing, and puts that on, instead. He knows the boys will be watching it back at the bar and he wishes he could’ve watched it with them, but he knows that would’ve been the wrong decision.

Tomorrow, his two weeks will be up. Visiting the gym is the first thing he’s going to do in the morning, jogging all the way there. He needs a good night’s rest and as little alcohol as possible – even the two beers he had are nagging at the guilt inside him.

He shouldn’t be having dinner so late, either, but JJ’s decided not to scold himself for that.

If Rocco and Connor weren’t there, and it was just the other boys with him, maybe Elliott, he could’ve stayed. These two he’s known the longest, and they know just how to get around his determination to be responsible on the odd occasion he chooses to be. Both amateur boxers with nine-to-five jobs, they’re always on the gym members’ Friday night outings, always ready to wreak havoc. 

Most guys are JJ’s age and older. Nearly all of the people there tonight were talking about their wives, long-term girlfriends, _families_ , even. They’ve got their lives sorted out, and JJ doesn’t like to think about settling down just yet. With constant training sessions and taking kickboxing seriously, he tells himself he hasn’t got the time for something serious.

Halfway through the match, JJ shifts from the barstool to the sofa, propping his feet up next to the TV. He makes some popcorn and he’s being entertained enough. It’s just an ordinary Friday.

He likes the familiarity of the way his past five years have been.

It’s nearing nine when his phone rings. He glances over and reads the caller ID: Aisha Maguire. His brow furrows and he thinks, _it’s a bit early for a booty call_ , but he also doesn’t think he’d refuse it. It’s an ordinary Friday – he’s _bored_.

So he picks up the phone and clicks the green button. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey, JJ.’ Aisha’s voice doesn’t sound like he expected from a call like this—tired, drawn out Canadian vowels, sultry and wanting—but all prim and proper, business-like instead. ‘Look, I know you’ve turned down the offer, but I really need you to hear me out.’

JJ sighs. He holds the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. ‘Don’t tell me this is about the Heyward match.’

‘It is.’

‘Why are you calling me about this? I already told Nick I’m not doing it.’

‘Okay, but I received a call from Heyward’s PR manager earlier today.’ She sounds confident enough that JJ feels himself trying to figure out how that changes anything. ‘I said that the offer is off the table, but she told me that she can convince you otherwise.’

‘Ash, some random girl isn’t going to change my mind about this.’

She sighs, and JJ really wishes it _was_ a booty call. If someone else tries approaching him about fighting Pope Heyward—

‘Look. I’ll give you her number. Write it down and give her a chance.’

‘Why are you so convinced she’s going to change my mind?’

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. JJ watches the football match – the opposing team just scored, and he curses quietly.

‘Because she said she knows you.’

_If this is one of the girls I hooked up with—_ ‘And you believed her?’

‘Well, not at first, but then she told me things that she couldn’t have found out elsewhere. Like the thing about your moniker being from the boat that your best friend—’

‘Enough,’ JJ cuts in. His heart is racing but he’s refusing to hear what Aisha is telling him. ‘What the fuck are you saying?’

 _No_ , JJ thinks, _this can’t be happening. Not fucking—_

He stands up from the sofa and begins pacing around the living room, running his hand through his hair until there’s hairs sticking to his sweaty palms as if glued. ‘I’m not talking to her.’

The only reason why Aisha knows about the origin of the Phantom is because one of the times they slept together, he was drunk and lonely, and he had to talk to someone. He never made that mistake again – but the damage had been done.

He’s paying for it now.

‘She said you’d say that.’

_Fuck._

_Oh, fuck._

‘Anyway, JJ, just write down her number, and then decide what to do about it.’ Aisha pauses; JJ can almost see her biting her lip, swallowing dryly as she hesitates. ‘Maybe… Maybe it would be good to get in touch with someone from your past.’

He should never have hooked up with his PR manager.

All JJ does is sigh, walking over to the fridge. He’s tired of people telling him what to do, how to live his life, but he’s just as tired of fighting them. If writing down the number will make Aisha stop pestering him about this, he’ll do it.

She tells him the digits and he writes them underneath _FIX THE MIDDLE DRAWER_ , bold and black and sticking out like a sore thumb.

He leans his forehead on the fridge, holding the phone close to his ear, then asks the question he already knows the answer to: ‘Ash, what did you say the girl’s name was?’

JJ doesn’t write it down. He doesn’t attach it to the number, not even when the call is over and all he can do is stare at the digits as if they’re going to whisper to him the reason this is all happening now.

(That’s a question he knows the answer to, as well, but he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t count how long it’s been. He _doesn’t_.)

—

Life moves on, and JJ doesn’t come near the phone number. Aisha asks if he’s called, at some point, and he doesn’t text her back. Nick gives him curious glances, and Tommy seems to be the only person who knows that JJ is _not_ fighting Heyward.

Except – except the digits are ingrained in his brain, imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He sees them when he’s training and eating and showering, when he’s walking around the neighbourhood, when he’s beating Jorge at darts next Friday.

It’s Tuesday. Tuesdays are boring days – they’ve got nothing almost going for them, and they’re right after usually shitty Mondays, leading up to only the middle of the week.

It’s only two in the afternoon, as well, so JJ guesses someone will pick up his call.

He’s sitting in a cafe downtown, not too far from the gym. He’s just finished the morning session of training kids—what he does on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and occasionally Saturday mornings—and he’s sat down for coffee, looking out of the window.

Calling from his apartment made him feel too vulnerable -- too exposed. Now, his fingers type in the digits, and he doesn’t let himself hesitate before pressing the call button.

He hangs up at the first ring.

‘Fuck,’ he mumbles. She’s going to have a missed call.

JJ presses the side of his phone to his forehead, feeling the blood boiling in his ears. He’s glad there’s people around him to drown this out. He blends in, and he doesn’t feel so alone.

He calls again, then, and lets it ring.

_Maybe she won’t answer._

_Maybe I won’t have to talk to her._

_Maybe—_

‘Hello?’

JJ pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a shaky sigh. Hearing her voice again, after so long— 

Time ceases to exist. JJ feels as if no one, nothing is moving. Even the noise fades into the background, and all he can hear is her breathing on the other end of the line.

She repeats herself.

It’s uncanny, how much hearing her feels like hearing a ghost.

He clears his throat, and says: ‘Hey, Kie.’


	2. i don't need another friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JJ faces his past. Things with the Heyward match seem to be getting more complicated, and there's a promise to his manager that JJ has obliged to keep. His friends, though, are here to help out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i updated the notes on the first chapter so _please_ go look at that if you haven't already, it's quite important. i also added a few sentences to the first chapter, nothing _too_ important, but just thought i'd let you guys know. we're slowly getting into the plot and i'm loving it!

The helmet comes off, and not even a moment passes before JJ’s tasting salt on his tongue, with wind swirling between the beach houses. He hops off his bike with ease, holding the helmet underneath his arm, and locks it all in place. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and it’s wet as he runs his hand through it, in a vain attempt at making it look a little less stiff.

He walks forward, between the houses until he’s reached the place where the sidewalk meets the sand, stretching on each side as far as he can see. It’s a hell of a sight, and one that he doesn’t see too often.

There’s a pier in front of him, a little to the left, with people jumping off it. The beach itself is filled with people, too, mostly sunbathing as spring heats are starting. JJ sees a couple of surfers paddling on their boards, out to catch the early morning waves.

His chest tightens at the thought. It’s been a while since the last time he surfed, or even touched the ocean. He tells himself he doesn’t miss it, but each time he sees the vastness of the ocean and feels its call, it rings a little less true.

Coming to the beach is something that has happened less than a handful of times, since he arrived in California.

JJ sits on a bench at the edge of the sidewalk. All he can hear is the gulls crashing into waves and people’s chatter – the houses muffle the sounds from the street.

Moments like these are something JJ doesn’t allow himself to have very often. Seeing people living their lives like they belong to the ocean reminds him of what he’s lost, and JJ Maybank has done everything in his capacity to forget the past. The ocean, the waves, the thrill of riding water with nothing but a wooden board to support him – he’s sacrificed all of it.

It was his only choice.

There’s a memory, one that he doesn’t seem to be able to get rid of, fluttering in the back of his mind, slithering its way into the forefront. He feels the board under his chest as a wave splashes into his mouth and all he tastes is salt, and it’s so much of it that he coughs, while his friends laugh. He recalls splashing the curly-haired girl on his left with water, and it goes back and forth until he takes hold of her legs and drags her off the board. The other two join them in the wrestling, and JJ feels his head being pushed underwater, time and time again, all with laughter. The waves come and go and they rise to their surfing boards and catch them, one friend teasing the other. The memory is so real that it seems as if he can still feel the wave underneath his fingertips as he rides on it, keeping himself on the board until the very last moment. The girl in front of him is just as good, if not better, and the smile she gives him… In the moment, the two of them are all there is. The rest of the world can go screw itself, for all he cares, as long as they’re riding the waves and she’s smiling at him like she  _ knows _ . But then the wave crashes over him and JJ nearly drowns, and the memory crashes to an end. 

JJ heaves a sigh, letting his body relax against the back of the bench. The helmet is still on his lap and he’s tapping against it, the rhythm akin to that of the waves crashing on the beach.

He glances at his phone to check the time – 9:43am. He’s got over an hour until he needs to be at the cafe. There’s also a missed call from Elliott; JJ twirls the phone around in his hands, waiting for the tightness around his chest to loosen its grip.

JJ Maybank’s a fighter, not a surfer. He’s done with that – he is done with the reputation the Maybank name had carried until now. He doesn’t need to be just another fisherman, another surfer, another goddamn waste of space who can’t breathe without water.

The phone rings. Elliott answers on the third bell.

‘My phone was on silent,’ says JJ, in lieu of a greeting. ‘What’s up?’

‘Daphne and I are arguing about’—‘ _ Discussing _ ,’ is demanded in the background—‘Right,  _ discussing _ tables.’

JJ laughs Elliott’s little aggravated sigh. ‘Tables?’

‘Seating arrangements. Daphne is saying we should put Ada and Julianna with the gym table, and I’m saying—’

‘Julianna? Jorge’s ex?’ JJ shakes his head, unable to fight the grin forming on his face. ‘Dude, no way. They’ll kill each other.’

‘Exactly! She keeps saying it’ll be good to reunite them.’ Elliott repeats JJ’s words to Daphne, who replies something the phone doesn’t catch. ‘Can you come over? We need a mediator.’

‘You mean you need someone to support you.’

The ocean’s call is quieter than his friend’s chuckle. ‘Not too far from the truth. Actually, Daphne’s sister brought some cookies last night, they’re really good, and there’s still a lot left. I would bring them to the gym, but you know Tommy.’

‘Yeah,’ chuckles JJ. His fingers are playing with the chinstrap, lightly pushing the inner foam of the helmet. ‘Look, the cookies sound great and all, but I’ve actually got something in a bit.’

‘Something,’ Elliott repeats with a hint of teasing. ‘Something that’s got you all mysterious?’

‘If it goes well, maybe I’ll tell you about it.’

Elliott hums in response. ‘Alright. I’m hoping it goes well, then.’

‘Thanks.’ JJ itches the skin below his jaw. ‘Hey, Elliott?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Can you bring those cookies to the gym, actually? Tommy doesn’t need to see them, just give them to me in a box.’

There’s laughter on the other end of the line and Elliott, muffled, tells Daphne that JJ wants the cookies, after all. He promises to bring the cookies and wishes JJ luck, again, with whatever it is he’s got coming up. JJ thanks him and a part of him wishes he wasn’t so persistent in keeping the whole thing a secret. It’s a fleeting thought – JJ knows that the more he talks about something, the more real and permanent it becomes.

This is a one-time thing. Nobody needs to know. In a few hours, it will all be done and over with.

—

JJ parks the bike a few blocks away, a few minutes before it hits eleven. He knows he’s going to be late, but he didn’t account for the lack of parking spots on a Friday morning in the heart of San Diego, and he tells himself that the miscalculation isn’t entirely his fault, or on purpose.

It’s only a few minutes.

(And a few years, but JJ doesn’t let the thought fully form in his head.)

His hands are casually in his pocket and he’s got that casual stride on the pavement and he’s looking around, casually, because he’s not stressed. Because he’s crossing the distance between his bike and the cafe at a normal speed, despite knowing he should probably try not to be any more late than he already is. The people around him are going on about their day as usual and he tells himself that he is doing the same.

It’s just coffee. It’s just a business meeting. He’s done plenty of those.

When he spots the cafe’s sign across the street, he’s waiting for a green light. The inside is well-lit and his eyes scan for familiar bushy hair, or braids, or a tie-dyed headband, despite knowing that the distance is too great for him to see anything. The most he can make out are silhouettes and shapes, and all he can do is wonder which one of them she is.

(He wonders if her skin is still sun-kissed, with faint freckles littered across her face.)

The green light comes. JJ crosses the street leaning to the left, so when he’s on the other side, he’s not standing in front of the cafe window.

He takes a big breath, ignoring the increasing pace of his heart’s beating.

‘C’mon,’ he whispers, ‘it’s just business.’

JJ starts walking alongside the window, glancing in. She’s not anywhere on the left side so he peeks towards the right, taking his time as he approaches the entrance door – but there’s no girl that fits his expectations.

He enters and, for a moment, thinks she isn’t there. His heart sinks in his chest as he frowns, scanning the crowd once again.

(Did he  _ want  _ to see her?)

He doesn’t have time to think, because when he lays his eyes upon her, sitting in the very middle of the cafe, he can’t tear them off. His feet are frozen in place and a breath hitched in his throat and he feels as if the world is spinning, just the tiniest bit.

Her hair’s not curly, but straight with big, elegant waves at the tips; it’s not pulled up into a effortless bun within a moment, but a high, slicked-back ponytail that accentuates her cheekbones and her jawline, and brings the ten years he hasn’t seen her in, to full display. She looks sharper. Too sharp — seeing her brings him into a state that is almost delirious.

Has he not believed her to be more than a figment of her imagination, after all these years? Has the memory of her been etched into the back of his brain so deeply that combining that with the image of the person in front of him is impossible?

She’s not looking at him and he’s lucky, because his jaw is on the floor, and he might faint.

JJ remembers her to look unruly, untamed, wild in every way he could appreciate. Her face is in front of him yet he hardly recognises her, while knowing it’s truly her all the same.

He brings himself out of it – he’s here for one thing and one thing only.

Kie doesn’t look up as he approaches her, until the chair opposite of her screeches and he sees himself to it. Her lip quivers a little and she takes a sharp breath, blinking quickly.

JJ’s had a moment to recalibrate. ‘Hey,’ he greets, and before she gets a word in, ‘look, I’m here strictly on business. Everybody’s been nagging me to do this match and I figured if I get you to stop asking, they’ll do the same. I’m not doing it. I don’t care about the money, or whatever it is that you guys are offering. This match is not happening.’

All Kie does is stare at him with her mouth slightly agape, brown eyes running over him as if trying to comprehend what she’s seeing. Trying to believe it.

A waitress comes and asks for his order. Kie’s got hers already, and all he gets is a sandwich and some coffee. It’s good for his stomach. The waitress leaves with a smile on her face because JJ told her she’s done her hair nicely and he sits back, looking at Kie, waiting.

Expecting.

She’s tapping her fingers on the table with a sharp look in her eyes, lips pressed together. His gaze doesn’t waver even if he feels scrutinised and judged.

Kie calls his name. ‘Can’t we just talk, like normal people?’

‘I thought you called about a business thing,’ JJ responds, before he can think about the melody of maturity in her voice and how much they’re not kids anymore.

‘I did. It’s about the match. But I wanted to—’

‘Then let’s talk about the match, yeah? The one that’s not happening? Is that enough?’

Her eyebrows furrow and she parts her lips to respond when the waitress puts coffee in front of JJ, with a sandwich and a croissant. When he thanks and asks about the croissant, she gives him a sheepish smile. ‘It’s for nice customers.’

(Later, he finds her phone number written on the bill. He throws it away.)

Kie relaxes her hand, taking a sip of her coffee or whatever it is that she’s drinking. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t seem as agitated when she sighs – it’s assurance. ‘If it was just about the match, you wouldn’t have come here.’

‘You’re the one who travelled halfway across the States to get here.’

‘And?’ Kie’s raised eyebrow is a challenge. ‘I’m here on business because I’ve been invited here, expecting a little more than just a refusal that could’ve been done over the phone.’

‘Well, that’s what you’re getting. I’m done.’

His voice may be steady, but he feels his armpits sweating, and his toes tap a silent rhythm against the parquet. He was a fool to think he could sit it out here, in the cafe, with Kiara fucking Carrera on the other side of the table. He’s only had one rule that he’s stuck to for nearly ten years now and he can’t believe he managed to fuck it up.

_ Stupid _ , he thinks,  _ fucking idiotic. _

JJ rises from his chair with a screech loud enough to turn a couple of heads. He apologises quietly, a little uneasy about causing a commotion.

‘You haven’t touched your food, JJ.’

He glances at it. ‘It doesn’t look very appetising.’

‘I have a feeling your waitress will be disappointed.’ There’s a bite to her tone, something more dangerous than the playful kind he’s used to, and it makes him falter – and that seems to be enough. ‘At least stay until you’ve finished your food.’

Without a word, JJ moves back into his seat, well aware of the eyes still on him.

There’s no victory in the stifled tilt of Kie’s smile. A little irritation, disbelief, maybe even disappointment, but no gloating. No self-satisfaction in knowing she’s got her way.

JJ takes a bite out of the croissant, unsettled by the unfamiliarity of the girl in front of him.

‘I told you this isn’t happening, so I’m going to finish my food and leave. You’ve got time to say whatever you want to say until then.’

Kie’s neck tenses and the sip she takes seems almost forceful. The arch of her brow is the same, but the intensity of the gaze is deeper; protruding, rather than tempting. ‘What _I_ want to say?’

‘Mhm.’

‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be begging for the match or something?’

‘ _ Begging _ ?’ Kie gasps quietly – all her emotions seem to be expressed through the poor cup of coffee, which she nearly slams on the table. ‘You ran away without telling anyone. Without telling  _ us _ . Pope and I, we— we thought you were  _ dead _ . For nearly four fucking years. And surprise, guess what? We find out you’re alive by accident, and not only are you alive and well, but getting into boxing, and have the audacity to say I’m here to  _ beg _ you? Do you know how that feels?’

‘No,’ JJ responds, mouth full of croissant, ‘but if the way you’re being right now is saying anything, seems like you’re taking it too close to heart. And for the record, I do kickboxing.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me right now?’

He holds her gaze for a few moments, unwavering. ‘Do I look like I am?’

If this was old Kie, she would kick off at someone treating her like this. She would curse and tell him off and make him regret ever being born. But no – all she does is lean back in her chair, look to the side with anger palpable but dissipating.

JJ finishes his croissant and starts drinking his coffee. ‘Did you arrange the match to get to me?’

‘No.’

All he does is raise his eyebrows, and her sigh falters. Her hand reaches for the end of her ponytail, twirling a few strands around her fingers – her hair’s longer than he’s ever seen it, and usually JJ finds this kind of hairstyle hot, but there’s something off about this. He can’t place a finger on it.

When their eyes meet again, Kie doesn’t seem so… _ stiff _ . Her posture drops and she seems to almost fold into herself, letting her hair fall over her shoulder.

‘Pope is wanting to try out kickboxing,’ she says, finally. ‘Branch out, and all that. We thought that if we’re doing this, then we might as well try getting you into the equation.’

‘Two birds, one stone.’ JJ runs a hand through his hair; it’s no longer sticky, but there’s a weird texture to it, and he’s self conscious about the way he looks for the first time since he’s arrived here. ‘I’m just a pawn in your little game, then.’

‘No, JJ— You know that’s not true. We’ve been trying to contact you for  _ years _ , and this was the only way.’ When he forces a chuckle, she adds, ‘I’m being  _ serious _ .’

‘I thought the lack of ways to contact me would speak for itself.’

Kie crosses her arms on her chest. ‘Not for everybody. Friends keep trying.’

The chuckle escapes him before he can stop it. There’s a lot he could say right now but he keeps it to himself, because he doesn’t think she is ready to hear exactly what he thinks about  _ friends _ . That fateful summer, a lot happened, and a lot of it JJ has been repressing to this very day – the summer didn’t end with the storm.

He doesn’t see a point in telling her any of that when he’s already moved on. He eats his sandwich, instead, and watches her as if she’s the most boring thing he could possibly be looking at. After this, she’ll know how he feels about the whole reaching out thing. If all goes well, he’ll never have to look at her again.

‘It’s been ten years.’ Kie shifts in her seat, gauging his reaction to her statement. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘There’s a lot more but I don’t think you’d like to hear any of it.’ It comes out snappier than he expected it to and she flinches. ‘See?’

‘I’m not doing this for me, JJ.’

‘Oh, really? Cause I don’t see Pope anywhere around here, and you sure as hell aren’t doing this for  _ me _ .’

JJ says Pope’s name as if it were a curse. Kie flinches at this, again, and he doesn’t like the way he isn’t opposed to seeing her flinch from his words. Maybe some part of him is relishing in the ability to hurt him the way she hurt him all those years ago – a nasty, malevolent part, but a part of him nonetheless.

Kie stares at him for a moment, as if loading a gun, and then: ‘We’re doing this for John B and Sarah.’

She fires it.

JJ feels as if someone’s dragging him by his feet, down into hell, where everybody can see and hear and feel what he sees and hears and feels – the repressed guilt seeping through every scar being cut open. He doesn’t feel like eating anymore.

But in reality, all he does is set his sandwich back on the plate, and let the bitterness of the coffee fill his mouth. ‘What about them?’

‘We never held a funeral for them.’

‘We buried them.’

‘No, we didn’t,’ she says. Her voice falters. ‘There were no bodies, so we refused to believe they’re really dead.’ She pauses a little and JJ thinks he can see an internal battle within her. ‘We just thought it’d be nice to, you know. Actually pay our respects. Say goodbye. We never really got to do that.’

‘I said my goodbyes when I left Kildare,’ JJ retorts. ‘It’s not my problem that you didn’t.’

Kie sits there, looking as if he’s backhanded her across the cheek. There’s an ache in JJ’s chest when he realises this, yet he drowns it by having the rest of his coffee.

He’s a quarter of a sandwich away from never dealing with his past again.

‘So you don’t want to—’

‘No. Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no.’

_ I don’t want anything that’s got you included in it. _

‘Okay,’ says Kie, with a shaky little breath falling from her lips. ‘If that’s what you want.’

JJ raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’

Kie shrugs, a little too nonchalant, fiddling with the phone that was turned face-down on the table until now. Her eyes avoid meeting his. ‘I’m not here to beg, JJ. I tried to get through to you, and you’re refusing, and I’m not a fool.’

‘Cool. Thanks.’

She shakes her head. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

There’s a beat and it’s almost as if the world has stopped, and then: ‘I’m happy here, Kiara. I don’t think I’ve ever— I’ve never felt like this.’

She understands what he’s saying, he’s sure of it, and he knows that it hurts her to hear him even if she isn’t showing it. Kie clears her throat and sips the last of her coffee, rising from her chair with more grace than he would’ve expected from her.

‘Great, then. I’m glad to hear that,’ she says. ‘Just… Take care of yourself, JJ.’

‘Yeah.’

_ You too _ , he thinks, but can’t bring himself to say it.

He watches her take her purse and put on the leather jacket as if he were watching her in slow motion – she’s taller, he thinks, and the top she’s wearing is skin-tight (JJ tries not to take notice of her curves, but his eyes are only eyes) and the black trousers are elegant, with simple platform shoes to complete the look. It doesn’t seem like the Kie he’s used to, but he guesses the Kie he is— _ was _ —used to doesn’t quite exist anymore.

In her place, instead, is this woman he hardly recognises, who straightens her hear, wears smart clothing and holds herself with the pride worthy of a Kook.

Guess both of them have grown into their roots.

An image flashes before him – Kie in her Midsummer’s dress, leaping into his arms with the desire to go on an adventure. She played the role of a lady then, but now she felt like one, and JJ has never been and never will be to consider himself worthy of someone like that.

It pricks, like a thorn in his foot, and maybe it’s spite that washes over him, or jealousy, or bitterness that their lives have gone this way, and he doesn’t know what comes over him but—

‘I thought I was falling for you, you know.’ He lets out a dry chuckle, not shying away from her gaze. ‘I was a fucking idiot.’

Kie freezes. She’s looking at him as if she wishes she wasn’t – as if the bullet he’d just fired hurts the same as the one she fired at him. Her lip quivers and when the realisation dawns over her, the taken-aback look in the lines around her eyes is so reminiscent of  _ his Kie _ that JJ almost regrets his words.

Almost, but he doesn’t. Not when he can still feel the lump in his throat choking him from the mere mention of what he’s lost.

She rubs her forehead with her finger, opening and closing her mouth for a few seconds, shock slowly dwindling; JJ just watches. Wonders if she’s got another bullet up her sleeve.

‘I, um— I’m guessing no one told you.’ She pauses and looks at him – she’s acting as if he hadn’t just confessed that. Instead of anger, or shock, her face is showing genuine concern; another flash of his Kie. ‘Your dad died two years ago.’

She doesn’t express her condolences and JJ appreciates that. ‘Thanks.’

‘Yeah. Well.’

He doesn’t ask her to stay. She doesn’t offer.

Kie leaves without a real goodbye, and JJ is left sitting alone at a coffee table for two, with a quarter of a sandwich he never picks up again. His thoughts are swirling around his head and he thinks he can hear her shoes clicking as she walks through the door, behind him, but doesn’t turn to look.

The back of his head is ringing loud enough to tune out all the other noise and JJ finds himself drowning in the sound, finally choking on the lump in his throat until it almost kills him.

But it’s over now – he survived.

It’s over.

He buries his head in his hands, and just  _ breathes _ .

—

‘C’mon, Stan, give me a  _ proper  _ jab. You keep going like that and Leila will kick your— Yeah, kid, that’s  _ good _ !’ JJ pats Stan, a scrawny boy of barely twelve, on the back, and gives him a light shove back towards his training partner. JJ claps his hands, grabbing the attention of all the twenty-ish kids in proximity. ‘Alright, kids. We’re going to switch it up a little. Stan and Owen, go find yourself some space. Stella and Charlie. Simon and Vi. Leila and Allie. Freddie and…’

Within half a minute, all the pairings have been switched up. Most regular gym-goers are currently away so the kids have got nearly the entire gym to themselves, and JJ likes making use of that.

‘Make space,’ he tells them, spreading his arms wide. ‘We’re doing a combo – two jabs, a cross, a hook, and then you finish off with any leg move you’d like, but make it a surprise. Leila, come over.’

The girl who was just paired with Stanley walks up to JJ, hands locked behind her back as a wide smile stretches across her face. Her hair’s tied up in two pigtails, curly and brown. For a moment, she reminds JJ of another girl with dark curly hair.

He shakes the thought out of his head.

‘Leila,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘You remember the instructions?’

‘Two jabs, a cross, a hook, a kick.’

‘Alright. You ready to show it on me?’

The little girl nods, confident. JJ raises his hands and helps her perform the blows, all a little flimsy, but hitting the targets. When she finishes, he gives her a high-five, and Leila skedaddles back next to Allie.

He blows the whistle and sets the timer on his watch, looking over the kids as they perform. He takes note of Stanley’s fast improvement, Owen’s determination to learn from his mistakes, Leila’s knack for precision, Vi’s astonishing speed, Charlie’s firm defence. Each of the kids has got something special going for them – something that, if JJ does his job right, will get them far in the future.

JJ loves his job.

They do some more exercises until the end of the session, when JJ gives them a makeshift obstacle course to go through. Most of them groan, but he tells them that if they want to get somewhere in life, they’ve got to go through the hard stuff, too.

He isn’t always motivational because he knows it easily becomes too much, but he’s aware that some of these kids don’t have adults to properly guide them. If all he contributes is a statement that hardly makes sense every now and then, but sticks around in their little heads, it’s still better than nothing.

Besides, JJ likes these kids. He wants to help out as much as he can.

(He tells himself it’s got nothing to do with his own lack of a positive authority figure when he was a kid.)

JJ walks up to the ring bell they have in the corner of the gym and strikes it, letting it echo for a bit. The kids scramble themselves into a line and he walks along them, smiling.

‘You were great today,’ he tells them. ‘Keep up the progress. You can have a day off tomorrow, but we’re going to start introducing a couple of new things next week, so I’m expecting everybody to be doing some working out even on your days off. Understood?’

There’s a cheer of yes’s, and JJ’s smile widens. ‘Questions?’

There’s a cheer of no’s, so JJ extends his hand. Within seconds, all of the kids have got their hands on his, assembled around him in a circle. ‘What are we?’

‘ _ WARRIORS!’ _

The kids cheer again, as they always do, running off to get changed and leave. JJ watches it unfold with an ease inside his chest – it never ceases to amaze him how easily kids are pleased. All they need is someone to believe in them.

JJ clears his throat. ‘Simon, it’s your turn to help me tidy up!’

Another scrawny boy with a red birthmark on his left eyebrow turns around, running over to JJ with no hesitation. Today, there’s a bruise marking his face, too.

‘It was my turn last week,’ says the kid.

‘Well, sometimes life isn’t fair, so your turn comes twice in two weeks.’ JJ shrugs and throws an arm around the kid—he reaches to JJ’s shoulders—and walks with him to the mats, starting to pile them up.

Simon is one of the best kids JJ’s ever taught. Smart and quick, easy to miss – all the kids are good, but Simon is the one JJ would put his money on. Kid’s got talent. Now it’s only the matter of time when he’ll start honing it in.

But he can’t do that if he’s getting into fights outside the gym.

‘So,’ JJ says, picking up the cones from the obstacle course. ‘Who managed to get their hands on the hardest kid to aim for?’

Simon freezes a little. ‘It was just some guys from school. It’s not a big deal.’

‘Were you the one who started it?’

‘No, Coach,’ says Simon, a little offended. ‘I’d never start a fight.’

‘Okay, I don’t doubt it.’ He elbows him gently, so Simon could see the concern on his face. ‘These kids, do they tease you often?’

‘Sometimes.’ The kid shrugs; he’s still avoiding JJ’s gaze. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Simon—’

‘Really, Coach. You don’t need to worry about me.’ He says it with assurance, as if it’s absurd that JJ would even worry about him, and it strikes a note of familiarity JJ wishes it hadn’t.

JJ sighs and sits down, motioning for the boy to do the same. Most of the other kids have left already so no one would find it odd, even if they took notice. ‘Is your dad expecting you home soon?’

‘He’s not going to be home until late.’

‘Well, would you like to help me make the plan for next week? Nothing big, just to see what we could do. I haven’t made up my mind yet, so…’

Simon smiles and the purple on his cheek shines bright under the gym light. ‘I’d love to help, Coach!’

After training the kids, JJ usually has a training session himself. He either spars with Rocco, who waves at him just now as he enters the gym, or boxes on the punching bag to test his limits. Now, he’s showing Simon how to keep his defence better and firmer and read the opponent’s body language before he evades, including some exercises Rocco showed him a few weeks back.

Simon doesn’t like help and charity, something that JJ can relate to, but he needs some sort of guidance if he’s going to be dealing with bullies.

After about half an hour of their one-on-one session, they’re both sweatier than before, and Simon is panting a little. He’s got good stamina for a thirteen-year-old, but that doesn’t always help in a brawl.

‘Look,’ says JJ, quietly. ‘I know the rule of the club is no fighting outside the gym. But you can defend yourself, alright? That’s fine. We’re going to understand that. As long as you don’t start anything and you don’t hurt anyone more than you need to defend yourself, it’s fine.’

The realisation dawns on Simon’s face and his eyes drop to his feet, shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t need special lessons, Coach.’

‘I’m not giving you special lessons. You’re going to learn this either today or at some point in the future. I just thought it could be more useful to you now.’

He doesn’t mean anything by this, but Simon is just thirteen and he’s taking this as a wound on his pride, if the way he’s holding himself is anything to judge by. Maybe JJ isn’t the best person for things like this, but he doesn’t think Simon’s dad can improve his defence in a scrap. Court officials don’t seem like they could hold their own in a street fight.

‘Look. You don’t have to listen to me if you don’t want to. But when they come at you, the most important thing is to protect your head, if you can’t get away, or run.’

‘I can’t run,’ Simon mutters. Something flashes over his face and he adds, ‘Running is for cowards.’

‘Running is for smart people who don’t want to get beaten. Take it from me.’ JJ lifts his shirt a little, exposing his lower side – on the left, there’s a thin scar that’s an imprint of one of Rafe Cameron’s rings. ‘Better save your head than your pride.’

Simon nods. There’s a little hesitation in the way his eyes are glued to JJ’s scar until he covers it. ‘What if really I can’t run?’

‘Then you defend yourself.’

‘And if I can’t defend myself?’

‘Then you hit, and try to run.’

‘And what if I can’t do that, either?’

_ Who the fuck are these bullies?  _ ‘Then you call me.’

At this, Simon seems a little more relaxed, and JJ wraps an arm around him again, pulling him closer. Simon’s hands wrap around him without hesitation. ‘Thanks, Coach.’

The boy’s spirits seem to be lifted when he finally leaves the gym, a little better for the wear. JJ finds himself worrying about the kid – he’s never been a troublemaker and he doesn’t seem like someone who’d be an easy target for bullies, but then again, San Diego works differently than Kildare.

It could be a one-off thing, JJ tells himself as he finishes cleaning up. The gym starts to fill as it’s just hit half past eleven and he makes a beeline for the punching bag next to Rocco, doing an elaborate handshake with the guy when he spots him.

‘What’s up, Daddy Maybank?’

JJ ties the bandages around his palm with a quirk in his brow. ‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘The kid,’ Rocco says, nodding towards where JJ and Simon were sitting. ‘I saw you were dealing with him fine. Was that because of the bruise, or what?’

‘He’s got some kids bugging him.’

‘You worried about him?’

‘Nah.’ JJ extends his hands towards Rocco and he tightens the gloves, tapping them lightly. ‘Simon lives three blocks away from here. He’s tough.’

Rocco nods and takes a step back before unloading a few punches to the bag hanging in front of him, all light but precise. ‘His dad’s that judge, right?’

‘Judge MacIntyre, yeah.’

‘Eh. Seems like kind of an asshole.’

‘That’s what being a judge does to you,’ JJ mutters, landing a few punches to his own bag; they land heavier than expected. ‘Or having any power over the small man.’

Rocco lets out a sharp chuckle. ‘Good thing he’s got you, then. You’re going to make a good dad someday.’

There’s a retort on the tip of JJ’s tongue but he swallows it, and opts for a punch, gritting his teeth, instead.

‘Seriously. You’re a natural with kids. No wonder they love having you as a coach.’

_ Thud. _

‘Can we go back to boxing, or are you going to get all sappy now?’

‘Alright, alright.’ Rocco raises his hands in defeat, shaking his head a little. ‘No need to get all Rocky Balboa on me for that.’

JJ heaves a sigh and it’s as much of an apology as Rocco’s going to get. Both of them seem to be aware of that, because they do end up going back to boxing. They agree on a series of timed exercises, all the advanced versions of the ones he plans on giving the kids, chatting about things they’ve got going on for them. Rocco’s recently started a new job downtown as a sous-chef and it’s looking pretty good for him – he’s got a ten-year plan of having his own restaurant, and seven years are already behind him.

They’re doing variations of the jab-cross-hook-kick combination he gave the kids. JJ’s punches are hard enough to be heard throughout the entire gym, or so it seems – he’s feeling the pressure of the intensity in the tendons throughout the back of his hand, getting tense and sore already. He’s got an unfamiliar stiffness in his shoulders, pushing his feet into the ground; beating the shit out of the bag does little to help to relieve the tension.

Physically, anyway. Mentally, JJ feels like he’s pushing out every thought he’d repressed to the back of his mind in the past few days – every face and memory that showed up unannounced and unwanted.

Rocco calls his name, loudly, and JJ gives it one more go until his hands drop to his sides, sweat dripping down his temples.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Nowhere,’ says JJ. He wants to wipe the sweat off of him, but he knows better than to use his gloves, like he used to. ‘I just thought I’d push myself today.’

‘Don’t push too hard just yet. I still want to beat your ass after we’re done warming up.’

‘You, beating my ass?’

‘Damn right.’

Rocco winks at him and announces the start of another round. JJ takes it a little easier; his hands ache a little and even his neck is sore from all the tensing, still.

They end up sparring a few rounds later. Rocco puts up quite a fight but it’s mostly fun, a little dirty, and a little more challenging than one would think a friendly spar would be. Rocco’s good and he’s more of a technical fighter rather than a brawler, which is a stark contrast to JJ (even with all his improvements over the years). Not only is Rocco good at deflecting JJ’s throws from a southpaw stance, but he also knows JJ’s strength and weaknesses better than probably everyone apart from Tommy.

Sometimes, JJ wonders what would’ve become of Rocco Voigt if he decided to pursue a form of boxing instead of the culinary arts. He could’ve been one of the greats – but some people just prefer to enjoy the quiet simplicities of life.

(Others, JJ thinks, don’t have that luxury.)

—

On Sunday morning, he finds some inspiration for tinkering around the bus. Jorge said that they could add some colour to it, a name spelled out over the entire thing in graffiti (art would be done by Jorge himself), but JJ hasn’t made his mind up on the name just yet.

He’s sitting on his toolbox with the spring sun high above him, staring at the bus as if it’s going to tell him its name. There’s quite a few things he’s thinking of fixing up today – the suspensors, for a start, and he’s got an additional few sets of screws to hold the back seats in place. He needs to take measurements for a minibar, too, one that he hopes to install by the time the next match comes around, so that the boys don’t need to carry drinks in bags.

With headphones stuffed into his ears, JJ finds a hard rock playlist to jam to while fixing up the bus. Usually he’d listen to something more soothing, like reggae, but now it doesn’t feel like the right pick.

Shortly after, JJ finds himself under the bus. There’s a mechanics’ garage just next to the parking lot, where JJ used to work. Still does, occasionally, when he wants to tinker with something and he doesn’t know what to do with the bus. The mechanics there are more than okay with letting him use the equipment on Sundays, provided he pays for what he breaks, if it comes to that.

It’s a fine deal.

Some Metallica is blasting through his earbuds when JJ feels the bus shake a little. He’s lying on a creeper seat with his hands covered in grease, suspensors half through being fixed – all he can hope is that whoever needs him, doesn’t need him for long.

JJ pushes himself out against the bottom of the bus. When the sun hits his eyes he shields them, and some of the grease drops onto his face –  _ great _ .

‘Thought you said you’d be taking time off this weekend.’

‘You know me,’ says JJ, wiping his hands on his trousers before finally taking the earbuds out. ‘Can’t let myself be without something to do.’

Tommy is sitting on his toolbox, his trademark hoodie thrown over his head despite the relatively warm weather. He’s twirling a wrench in his hand. ‘What are you fixing?’

JJ nods in the direction of a box with metal parts sticking out of it. ‘Suspensors. The back’s a bit bumpy.’

‘Doesn’t seem like a lot of work.’

‘There’s a few other things.’

The silence that falls after Tommy’s nod isn’t unpleasant. Cars drive in the background and there’s distant chatter, all paired with a flicker of JJ’s zippo. He inhales the smoke from the cigarette and rolls his eyes at the trainer, who seems to refrain from saying anything.

When JJ flicks off some of the burnt parts, he sighs. ‘It’s my only one in a week.’

‘As long as you’re preparing for the match.’ There’s a pause, then: ‘Which you are.’

All JJ does in response is nod, blowing smoke through a small hole between his lips.

_ Of course I’m preparing for the fucking match _ , he wants to say, but he’s learnt to keep his flame from setting everything on fire.  _ It’s about my life. I’m not gambling it away. _

Half of the cigarette has burnt out and it tastes more bitter than he’s used to. He flicks it to the floor and stubs it out, then throws it out in the bin. Tommy gives him the slight raise of brows, but doesn’t comment.

JJ sits down on the creeper. ‘What’s bringing you here?’

‘I know you’re still pissed about the Heyward match.’

‘I’m not.’ He pushes the creeper back until he’s pressed against the warm steel of the bus. ‘I got that sorted out, it’s in the past. All I’m thinking about is how to beat McLaggen.’

( _ I did what I had to. It was the right thing to do. It was. _ )

Tommy stares at him – his brow lowers over his eye, protruding and scrutinising. JJ holds his gaze, despite the chills rising up his spine at the feeling of being analysed. Tommy’s good at the psychological, even without the talking, and it’s not often that JJ is on the receiving end of it.

_ I know you’re lying,  _ says Tommy’s quiet sigh, and the little shake of his head before his face relaxes tells JJ,  _ I know your head’s not as in it as it’s supposed to be. _

He doesn’t say any of that.

‘We’re starting boxing and MMA training right after that match’s over.’

JJ frowns. ‘That’s too soon.’

There’s another pause. Tommy’s hands bring the wrench to a still, before he throws it at the blond. ‘Nick told me about the ultimatum.’

‘The one he gave me or the one I responded with?’

‘Both. You’re playing with fire, and people are talking.’ Tommy’s voice is stern but the lines of his face are softer than usual; the tilt of his brow concerning rather than scolding. ‘I know you don’t pay attention to the press, but if word about this gets out, you could get some shitty comments your way.’

_ Think about your reputation _ , is the underlying warning here, but JJ doesn’t quite give a fuck. Or at least he likes to think so – the reputation is what’s giving him matches and keeping the bookies on him. It’s yet another thing he can’t gamble with, despite consistently dancing on the edge of doing so.

JJ sticks his hands into his pockets. He finds the Zippo, and wedges his finger between the cap and the body. ‘What are the consequences?’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Maybank. You know what I’m talking about.’

Tommy glares at him with head tilted to the side, fingers running through his hair like it’s his own future JJ’s toying with.

The moment is charged. JJ lets out a quivering sigh, giving his trainer a reluctant nod.

It’s not his kickboxing reputation that’s on the line. If word gets out that he refuses matches and whatnot, he won’t be able to fight high-profile fighters upon his very entrance into the MMA and boxing worlds. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t give a damn, but he made a promise to Nick that he’s got to keep.

(He knows it would’ve been easier to do the match he keeps refusing and never do boxing again. It just happens to be the one piece of his integrity JJ can’t compromise.)

‘Can I worry about that later?’

‘When’s later?’ asks Tommy. ‘After the McLaggen match, after securing your first boxing match, after fighting in the octagon?’

‘Whenever.’ JJ takes the Zippo out and lights it; he watches the flame dance until the gentle breeze blows it out. ‘Just not right now.’

Tommy waits for a beat, and then he’s off the toolbox, standing in front of JJ with hands stuffed in pockets, with the sun shining behind his back. His face is half-shadowed by the contrast and the dominant energy reminds JJ of someone else who used to stand over him like that.

He flinches, then lets the Zippo burn his finger a little until the pain brings him to the present.

‘Maybank.’ Tommy shifts his weight from one foot to another, teetering on the edge of whatever he’s about to say. ‘If there’s anything you want to talk about, there’s—’

‘There isn’t. And if there was, I don’t think it’d be you I’d come to.’

It may be the sun’s optical illusion, but JJ thinks he sees a genuine smile in the corners of the man’s lips. ‘I was going to suggest Thawne. Or Barbas.’

With a pat on JJ’s shoulder, Tommy declares this conversation over. He stays for a few more minutes, asking JJ about the suspensors and the other things he’s planning to do, even letting the boy show him how to fix some of the things he didn’t know. By the time Tommy leaves, JJ realises he’s gone from a sour mood to something where he can focus back on tinkering without feeling the weight on his chest that comes whenever the cursed bout is mentioned.

JJ dunks himself under the bus again with a flashlight in his mouth, grabs a wrench, and gets back to work.

—

Jorge Barbas is, as per usual, late.

JJ’s found himself a spot in the back of the dive bar, slumped in the seat as he glances over the place again, looking for something to divert his boredom. There’s a group of bikers a few tables away, loud and having fun, and maybe a few weeks ago JJ would’ve joined them, and share some of his own experiences from back when he travelled half the country on his bike. On the other side there’s a group of girls, two of whom keep looking over, and maybe a few weeks back JJ would’ve entertained that thought, too.

The only conclusion JJ draws from this as he keeps on looking, is that in the past few weeks, he’s definitely lost some of what made him fun.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He shoots Jorge another text and he gets a reply almost instantly, consisting of the usual:  **Got held up at Joanna’s. I’m on my way. Sorry!** It makes JJ laugh – Jorge’s honest, at least, even that means admitting he’s late because he can’t resist his fiancee. It’s just as endearing as it is annoying, and JJ lets it slip.

At least now he knows he’s got about ten more minutes to kill, if Jorge’s just left Joanna’s. That’s on top of the fifteen he’s already waited, and the one beer he’s finished, and…

Boredom, like alcohol, drives a man to do things he otherwise wouldn’t.

JJ googles Pope Heyward.

It’s more of just clicking on the previous searches, if he’s being honest with himself, and he goes to the page that posts quality videos of Pope’s matches. The most recent one was a month ago, so about the same time as JJ’s. He opens the video and watches it, recognising Pope’s moves, analysing it as if it were another fighter, another opponent, and not someone he would’ve once upon a time taken a bullet for.

__ ( _ Has  _ taken a bullet for. Not a physical one, but jail time and a fine at sixteen feel all the same.)

Pope hits the guy with a messy, exhausted cross—not unlike he’d do to JJ when they would playfight—then steps back, and ends the match with a clean, powerful right jab straight into the nose. JJ feels a distant sense of pride swell in his chest – seeing the smile on Pope’s face when he realises the guy’s down, but walking over to make sure he’s doing okay, it makes him think that maybe not everything has changed.

Then they zoom into Pope’s face, and JJ drops to the comments. Most of them are positive, some are critiquing Pope, and some are so blatantly pure hate and irritation that JJ finds himself wanting to argue with them –  _ Pope’s doing a good job _ , he thinks,  _ I’d know better than anyone. _

There’s a reason why Pope’s name is up there with the big guys. He’s still got quite a bit left to climb, but he’s as reputable in boxing as JJ is in kickboxing – considering the scales of each sport, Pope’s got it much better. He’s like a bull, steadfast and determined, where JJ is like a snake, quick and whimsical.

It could’ve been a bout to watch.

One of the bikers slams his beer on the table and JJ’s head snaps in his direction; it’s nothing, he tells himself, even if his body tenses. The girls on the other table are throwing concerned glances around the bar. Half-heartedly, he nods at the one who catches his eye, as if to say that he’s got this.

_ Don’t worry,  _ he thinks the look is saying,  _ I’ve got this. _

__ His head’s ringing a little and he’s gripping his phone so hard it might break, but nothing comes of it. The bikers quieten down, and JJ’s attention is brought back to his phone when he sees what he’s accidentally clicked.

Pope’s Instagram account is less…  _ Pope _ , for the lack of a better expression, than he’d expected. The first few pictures are of him, some solo shots and others with his training team, matches, whatnot. JJ finds himself scrolling for a while to find a photo that feels even the slightest bit personal – there’s a photo of him with his parents for his dad’s 55th birthday nearly a year ago. Hardly any photos with friends, and none with—

JJ clicks on a photo dated from September, 2018. Nearly two year and a half years ago. There’s Pope, sweaty after a match, with a belt for the lightweight category around his waist, and Kie at his side, arms wrapped around the boy. Her hair is flat there, too, but the smile on her face is just as JJ remembers it – open and welcoming, as if the entire world ought to smile, too.

Pope’s embrace is firm. He looks ecstatic, happier than he’s ever looked from how JJ remembers him.

JJ’s gaze remains on the picture for a moment, before he finds himself scrolling through the other pictures from the post. Another one of him and Kie, with his parents, too, this time; one of him and his entire team by his side; one of what must’ve been the afterparty. Pope looks nothing short of belonging there – Pope, who was the worst at parties because he always wanted to just smoke weed and talk about the most random things, and almost exclusively it would be just the Pogues entertaining him. Kie is in the frame, too, with a glass filled with champagne, the same wide smile taking over her entire face.

Leaving was the best decision he could’ve made for them.

His finger slips (or so he tells himself) and the account that opens is Kie’s. JJ closes the app within a heartbeat, putting his phone away.

He can’t be doing this. He said it’s over. He called it all off, told himself he’d never meddle with their lives again, that what happened in Kildare stays in Kildare. He said what he said to make her not want to get in contact with him again. He said what he said because it was the last time he was going to talk to her. He said what he said because it was the only thing he never got to say.

He can’t be doing… Whatever it is that he’s doing right now.

( _ Ten years _ , he thinks.  _ I’ve held out for ten years. Looking at her Instagram profile won’t change that. _ )

So he looks around, checks that Jorge’s ten minutes are up and he still hasn’t showed up, and unlocks his phone.

For a while, he scrolls. Kie’s profile feels more like the Kie he used to know than the one he met a few days ago – pictures of animals, travels, friends and family, Pope’s matches, and even some photos and videos of her trying to box, too. She radiates happiness, the genuine kind that he doesn’t think can be faked even on social media. She’s got herself the life she’s always wanted.

This time, JJ doesn’t try to fight the happiness bubbling in his chest, or the smile reaching his cheeks. He clicks on a photo of Kie and an elephant, and the location is somewhere in Africa, dated from January. She’s got a tank top and cargo shorts on, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail and messy curls seeping out of it. There are photos where she’s polished, all prim and proper, but these are rarer. This seems like the person Kie is when the curtain is drawn and she gets to be herself.

It only hurts because that means that the Kie who came to meet him wasn’t this Kie.

(He’s kind of known that they were both coming guarded, putting up pretences of whatever they were trying to portray. She was just as closed off as he was, just as defensive, just as unwilling to show honest care. It was the PR manager Kiara Carrera, not his Kie from the island, even if she tried to make it seem different.

He wasn’t the JJ from the island, either.)

She’s happy. Pope’s happy. That’s all that matters.

JJ can move on now.

The infamously-late friend shows up shortly after that, with two beers in tow, and all’s forgiven. JJ’s entertained by a story about Jorge’s in-laws, who seem to be giving him hell even before he’s officially an in-law.

‘I won’t be late again,’ Jorge muses, index finger pointed up.

JJ chuckles. He shakes his head and sips the beer, knowing he’s going to particularly enjoy alcohol tonight. ‘Famous last words.’

‘You’ll see.’

‘As long as you keep getting a round whenever you’re late, I’m down.’

The two shake hands and Jorge gets JJ talking about the kids he’s training, about Elliott, about how Nick won’t get off his back, and his tongue loosens enough to talk about these things without feeling the weight of them. Jorge’s good helping people unwind, and JJ loves him for that.

It ends up being like with Tommy – he’s worried about shit and then someone comes around and takes his mind off of it. By the third beer, he forgets Kiara Carrera or Pope Heyward even exist.

—

JJ comes home late. It’s nearing midnight, which isn’t all too late for a twenty-six year old bachelor living alone with no job to wake up for in the morning, but it’s late for him.

He comes home late, and drunk.

The door nearly kicks him in the face when he stumbles into the hallway, struggling to even find the light switch. He curses and teeters around, wanting to just plop into bed and forget about the headache he’s going to have in the morning. All he needs is to find a pen so he can write down the plans he made with Jorge, because sober him won’t remember.

JJ sticks his hand into the drawer in the hallway cupboard and instead of a pen, his fingers grip an envelope.

Intoxicated, pissed at the world for trying to throw his past at his face, he lets the universe—fate—win. He takes the envelope out of the drawer, not even wiping the dust it has gathered in all this time. His head is spinning a little so he steadies himself with the empty palm flat against the wall, letting the cold bring some sobriety into him.

_ I need to turn on the heating if I’m planning on showering _ , he thinks as he sinks onto the windowsill.  _ I need to put more coffee grounds in the coffee maker. _

In his hands, the letter feels as if it’s on fire. He throws it on the coffee table to prevent himself from getting burnt.

Outside his apartment, the moon is barely there, and everything seems to be tinted an ugly shade of orange-yellow. Orange used to be JJ’s favourite colour – vibrant and joyful, a little out of the ordinary, but you can find it anywhere you look. Now, it feels like everything that made it vibrant has sucked all life and joy out of it, filling the gaping holes with rust that’s spreading like a virus, eating at everything that once was good.

JJ Maybank spent ten years repressing the trauma of his childhood and adolescence. He spent ten years erasing everything his father had done, good and bad, in order to rewrite his own sense of self. He spent ten years learning who he is when he’s not bound by the shackles of being a Maybank.

He fights under the name because he has chosen to reclaim it. To prove to himself that being a Maybank doesn’t guarantee being a good-for-nothing nobody.

The letter on the table is the last thing that’s keeping him from letting go and knowing that pains him more than he’d ever admit.

He sits on the couch with hands clasped in his lap, pushing at his nailbeds. The entire place is shrouded in darkness, even with the orange seeping through the window – it lands on the envelope like a curse, wrapping its repellent stench of rust over it. It’s almost as if the rust is coming from the inside, too – the merging of the evil.

They’re as good as one.

JJ’s head is ringing and he feels the pressure pushing on his ears, pushing him into himself, the sensation all too familiar;  _ when does this end? _

_ You do as I say _ , echoes Luke Maybank’s voice. JJ’s teeth grip and he shuts his eyes close, to not see the envelope, to not see the rusty light, to not see the rust underneath a car that could fall on top of him, to not—

JJ dives and grabs the letter. He doesn’t look at it until he’s sitting back in the chair, his heart is beating its way out of his chest, and he’s said to himself a thousand times that he can’t hurt him.

It’s dated June 21, 2019. Almost two years ago.

Luke Maybank always had a funny way of sending letters on the odd occasion he’d do it, writing down the date of sending it on the envelope.  _ In case it gets lost _ , he said once JJ asked him about it,  _ You can’t trust the fuckin’ post. They’re all scummy, stealin’ letters left and right. _

JJ couldn’t have been older than six, yet his father was already crass and blunt, with no regard for raising a child. He’d never meant to be a father in the first place, and it’s a fact that JJ could never fix.

(He tried. He tried running away, doing whatever Luke asked, being whoever he wanted him to be, until he realised that he’d only be happy if JJ was dead.)

His fingers glide across where the envelope has been closed, feeling the edge of the paper. A thick layer of dust remains on his finger. He thinks of his mind, of all the memories he must’ve buried to be able to not fall apart from the heaviness of his childhood, and wonders if there’s a layer of dust covering them, too.

He’s afraid of what he’d find.

In the end, JJ puts the letter back in the drawer, and sees himself to bed. There will be a day when he won’t feel like opening that letter would open everything he’d sealed away; when opening it won’t feel the same as lying underneath the guillotine with Luke Maybank holding the rope.

Today, there is only a line without dust – a line uncovering his full name written in his father’s handwriting, and it looks like a curse.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this! i honestly did not expect this to end up being as long as it is, but here we are. tell me what you thought, your theories on what might happen, why jj's so adamant at keeping past at bay, how you like the original characters, or anything else that's on your mind! you also can come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://maybankiara.tumblr.com). i sometimes post shorter jiara fics on there. (and there's pretty moodboards for all my fics hehe)


End file.
